The more she spoke with Gregory, the more she began to think that Marius’s concern might have some basis. Every now and then a dark expression would cross his face, as if he were remembering something unpleasant, and he would lose track of conversation, returning with a jolt when prompted—usually by Alexandra chiding him on his poor manners. Then he’d grin and refocus, buoyed up by cheerful optimism that was much more in keeping with the enthusiastic boy Hetta had known. But Hetta couldn’t help but note the dark circles beneath his eyes. Jack might be correct that there was a girl involved; Gregory was doing an excellent impression of one preoccupied with a strong infatuation. Calf-love in and of itself didn’t trouble her, but Gregory’s mood swings and air of distraction did. Was the girl toying with him to make him swing so quickly between elation and despair? Hetta had seen plenty of that amongst the actors—their dramatic personalities seemed to lend themselves to equally dramatic personal affairs—and she’d seen the ravages emotional manipulation could wreak on the young and vulnerable.
But it was none of her business, she reminded herself. She would be gone within the week. She’d booked her ticket back on the Monday following; the Choosing Ceremony was to be held on Saturday. She owed it to her company to return as quickly as possible afterwards.
If Marius isn’t chosen, it’s going to take him a while to get over it, she thought as she watched him absently sip his tea. His nose wrinkled in distaste; Grandmamma’s remedy was efficacious but unpleasant. Perhaps she should invite him to come down to Meridon to visit when she left, if he wasn’t chosen. She felt guilty for thinking it, but she agreed with the rest of the family that Jack was the much more likely successor to Lord Henry. Marius’s land-sense had always been weak. Maybe she could persuade him to bring Gregory with him; if her younger brother’s moodiness was because of some misplayed love affair, perhaps distance might give him perspective.
Marius caught her watching him but shied away from meeting her gaze. All his insecurities of the night before had clearly risen again, unmasked by wine, as he folded his paper and got up, shoulders high and tense.
Jack came in just as Marius was leaving, so that they met in the doorway. There was a frozen second of awkwardness where everyone else studiously pretended not to be watching the two of them.
Jack nodded stiffly. “Morning.”
Marius nodded back but forgot to reply before he angled his way past. He did that sometimes when he was stressed. A ghostly image of her father stood in the doorway for a second, bellowing at a younger but equally tongue-tied Marius.
Jack’s expression was poles apart from Lord Henry’s, amused rather than angry as he watched Marius go. The ghost faded. Jack wouldn’t be unkind to Marius if he became the new lord, Hetta thought. In fact, it would probably be best for all concerned. It would leave Marius free to escape to pursue his studies and Jack with the running of the estate he loved.
Jack shrugged, coming into the breakfast room and making straight for the sideboard. His cheeks were red with cold; of all the Valstars, Jack was one of the few naturally early risers. He would already have been out and about on the estate before breakfast.
Hetta debated whether to go after Marius right away or not. He could clearly use some support. However, it was also apparent he’d gotten himself into a mood, and sometimes it was better to leave him to muddle his way out again by himself.
Before she could decide, Wyn returned with a note for her.
“Just arrived from Penharrow, Miss Hetta,” he said formally, adding in an undertone: “Made a conquest of our noble neighbour, have we? Tsk, tsk.” He shook his head sadly, the russet of his eyes gleaming with flecks of brandy-gold. “Does he know you used to doodle ‘Henrietta Penharrow’ in your notebook?”
“That was only once!” she said indignantly. “And I was sixteen.”
“Ah, so he doesn’t know.” He grinned wickedly before he left.
He wasn’t at all jealous of the interest of another man, was he? What a fortunate thing that she’d already decided not to pursue this new attraction she felt towards him.
Hetta looked up and found her cousin Caroline considering her curiously. Caroline was only a year younger than Hetta, and the only other proper redhead in the family alongside Jack—Hetta’s auburn didn’t really count. Caroline inclined her head towards the door through which Wyn had left and raised an eyebrow questioningly, a teasing smile lurking around her mouth. Hetta shook her head, not wishing to discuss it and also annoyed with herself for being so obvious. Although Caroline was both more observant and more discreet than most of the family, so with any luck the rest could carry on being oblivious to Hetta’s less-than-strictly-proper interactions with the butler.
The note was a very welcome bolster to her vanity. It was from Angus, inviting her out for lunch.
7
Lord Angus Penharrow
By the time the appointed lunch arrived, Hetta was extremely glad to escape her overstuffed house. The tension in the household had become a palpable thing. Marius gave mumbled, monosyllabic responses to everyday queries. Lady Phoebe complained frequently of headaches. Aunt Sybil oscillated between impatience and smug certainty that her son Jack would surely inherit. She was unbearable towards Marius. Cecily, the eldest cousin, became crotchety and fractious and demanded her husband’s attention so completely that even that docile man increasingly made excuses to absent himself. Aunt Maude said whatever she thought was most likely to provoke Aunt Sybil. Uncle Percival attempted to lighten the atmosphere, but since his sense of humour was a somewhat skewed one, he had only minimal success. Second-cousin Randolf caused a stir by arriving with his eldest son in tow, not even pretending he hadn’t intended to miss the funeral; he’d had a falling-out with Lord Valstar a decade previous.
Hetta’s notoriety became ordinary and uninteresting, as everyone busied themselves reviving feuds and raking over every bit of family gossip since her ancestor had claimed this land nearly a thousand years ago.
The house thronged with multiple generations of Valstars, with cousins of various ages running through hallways, stealing cakes from the kitchens, attempting to slide down the banisters, and generally upsetting the older generations and servants both. Through it all, Wyn remained unruffled, calmly allocating bedrooms and juggling increasingly ridiculous demands with the precision of a general. Grandmamma bobbed above the whole, issuing cheerful and frequently tone-deaf remarks to all and sundry.
Hetta stood outside the house and took a long, steadying breath as she waited for Angus. The day was a fine one, crisp and clear, autumn slowly chilling towards winter. The mountain ranges cut sharply against the blue, blue sky. Filling her lungs, she let her tension fall away. She loved Meridon, but she had to admit that there was more air up here—or at least, better air.
Angus picked her up at the back entrance as instructed. He got out of the kineticar to greet her, and she was struck again by how, well, virile he appeared. He must be a hands-on estate owner—no one got shoulders like that by pushing paper about. The sun brushed his curls a richer brown and seemed designed to highlight his strong jawline.
His smile widened as he took in her own appearance. “Are these the scandalous modern ways you referred to?”
Hetta had worn trousers, largely to see what kind of reaction they would get. That was another reason for meeting him at the back entrance: to avoid the ire of Aunt Sybil. A certain amount of cursory illusion had still been called for to achieve the escape un-censored.
“Some of,” she admitted. She twirled, and the wide ends of the pale trousers flared around her boots. “What do you think?”
Angus smiled down at her, hooking his hands into his belt. “I think you’re testing me, lass. But I can’t see why any sane man would object to such a fashion. Do I pass?”
“That depends on why, exactly, you think that no sane man should object. I have a suspicion it’s nothing at all to do with equality and everything to do with aesthetics.”
“Will it land m
e in trouble if I confess very much to the latter?” The look in his eyes stirred her in a very feminine way. “For you cannot be unaware that they flatter your figure admirably. Though I’ll own they look much warmer than skirts and stockings, and I’m generally in favour of practicalities. A happy bonus, that the two should coincide?”
It was impossible not to be charmed, and there was, after all, no reason not to give in to the urge. Nothing serious could come of this, and he must know that as well as she; Hetta was only here for a few days more. Why not let herself be charmed by a good-looking man under those circumstances?
“A point in your favour for the acceptance of modern attire, but I think I shall have to take it away again for impure motives,” she said, taking his offered arm.
“Well, at least I am not in the red,” Angus said philosophically as he transferred her to the vehicle. “Perhaps I can improve my balance over lunch.”
* * *
He took her to a picturesque village pub situated on the banks of Deeplake, within the bounds of Penharrow. It appealed very much to Hetta’s tastes with its warm wooden interior, hearty fare, and opportunity for privacy in the booths along two of the walls. It wasn’t the dainty teashop she’d feared he might think suitable for ladies. Not that she disliked teashops, but it was the principle of the thing. He didn’t bat an eyelid when she ordered a half-pint of the local beer, dark and malty in flavour. Points in Angus’s favour, indeed.
Angus asked her about her time in Meridon and listened with every evidence of interest. He himself had spent quite a bit of time in the Southern capital before his father’s death. It was a relief to speak of places and people in common with someone who shared the same basic level of understanding.
“I’ve not had a chance to visit since my father passed,” Angus said with a self-deprecating smile. “But you make me want to make the effort again.”
Hetta took the opportunity to ask what he’d been doing on his estates. What he’d told her on their initial drive from the station turned out to be the least of it.
“There’s so much more to modern farming and estate management than our forebears could’ve imagined,” he enthused, making an encompassing gesture with his arms. Hetta couldn’t help noticing their firm muscle, and her insides flipped pleasurably.
He warmed to his subject, and to her surprise, Hetta found his tales of updating machinery and new cross-breeds of sheep highly entertaining. But then, she reflected, Angus had always been articulate. That was at least half his appeal, even if the other half derived a lot from the breadth of his shoulders.
Altogether it was a very pleasant afternoon, and Hetta was somewhat regretful to think that there would be no opportunity to repeat it before she left. Although, she realised with a flash of wonder, her absence need not be nearly as absolute as previously.
“What’s made that look come over you, lass?” Angus asked as they strolled along the shore of Deeplake after taking their luncheon. The surrounding hills and clear sky showed perfect reflections in the waters. “You look as if something unexpected just occurred to you.” He grinned, hazel eyes almost green in the afternoon sun. “And I suspect you’ve no recollection of the last few words I spoke.”
Hetta had to admit that she didn’t. “It just occurred to me that I might visit Stariel more than I’ve been used to, now.” There was no one keeping her from visiting, now; any exile would be entirely self-imposed.
Angus’s expression grew more serious, and it was clear that he understood what she meant. Then he smiled again. “I’ll confess I’ll be glad to see you if you do. The company here is somewhat thin on the ground.”
Hetta laughed. “You mean to say that you only tolerate my company because your choices are so limited!”
Angus took this sally as it was intended, chuckling. “Damme if I wouldn’t choose to seek you out even amongst all the society of Meridon.”
Hetta was flattered, as he’d intended her to be. “That’s a very touching sentiment. Why, I almost believe you.”
An odd expression crossed Angus’s face as he looked down at her, and then he appeared to come to some decision.
“I think I’d better show you some more convincing sign of my affection, then,” he said easily. Hetta’s heart fluttered as she realised he was about to kiss her, and she obediently tilted her head.
Lord Angus Penharrow kissed her firmly and without hurry, a man who had no doubts about his abilities. And quite rightly so, Hetta thought dizzily, as her inner sixteen-year-old punched the air in triumph. Her body felt pleasantly flushed by the time they broke apart.
“Oh!” she said as he twinkled unrepentantly down at her. She had a moment’s uncertainty where she hoped that he wasn’t about to make it necessary for her to extricate herself from an awkward situation, but he merely gave her that lazy, charming grin again.
“Well,” she said. “That was forward of you, but I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it.”
“I rather thought you did,” he agreed.
She laughed. “You are outrageous.”
“Merely ‘forward’, I thought you said?” He offered her his arm. “But we should be getting back.” He seemed to sense the direction her thoughts had taken and reassured her. “I’ve no expectations of you, Hetta.” His eyes crinkled in amusement. “But you just looked too delectable to resist. Forgive me a moment’s weakness.”
“Oh, all right then,” she said, taking his arm. His forearm felt every bit as firmly muscled as it had looked.
Really, Hetta thought, she needed to leave Stariel before her libido entirely overcame her good sense.
8
The Choosing Ceremony
Everyone woke early on Saturday, even though the Choosing wouldn’t be until after sunset. The steps of the ceremony had been set out long, long ago, and each and every one of them would be adhered to, no matter how archaic or absurd. Hetta strongly suspected one of her ancestors with a penchant for the melodramatic had deliberately introduced much of the pageantry surrounding the ceremony. These white robes, for instance, cannot possibly be in any way necessary to the actual event, she thought, donning hers with resignation. The robes had been designed by someone whose view of history slanted towards the highly romanticised. At least she wouldn’t be alone in her ridiculous attire, and it was almost worth it just to see Aunt Sybil, usually so severely dressed, trying to appear dignified whilst wearing the flowing white robe belted with ivy. But she’d underestimated the steel of her aunt and had to admit to reluctant admiration when she saw her don her circlet of starflowers with an expression carved from granite, daring any of their retainers to comment. None did.
Throng was a good way to describe the assorted Valstars as they arranged themselves around the Standing Stones where the ceremony was held, each wearing the prescribed white robes, and each carrying a single white candle. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the candles were lit in a more-or-less synchronised fashion and with more-or-less the solemnity that the occasion called for. Hetta made the mistake of meeting her cousin Caroline’s gaze and only just managed to stifle a laugh as Caroline rolled her eyes at their Aunt Maude, who had lit her candle with all the reverence of a priest anointing a holy object.
Hetta’s amusement dimmed somewhat as the darkness settled and the atmosphere shifted. The setup might be silly, but the implications of the Choosing were far-reaching. The weight of history, of the long line of Valstars that had ruled over this land for a thousand years, became palpable as Lady Phoebe and Grandmamma arrived with the casket containing the Star Stone. Even Stariel itself felt more awake, the land’s focus clearly upon them.
The Star Stone was probably the one part of the ritual that was actually necessary. It was about a hand span across, and made of a deep blue substance that glittered oddly, as if clouds shifted beneath its solid surface. The substance was star indigo, a rare mineral found in the Indigo Mountains within Stariel’s borders. Lady Phoebe and Grandmamma took it from the casket and placed it on a stone plinth i
n the centre of the Standing Stones with slow, careful movements, their hands gloved. The Stone didn’t activate without the proper ritual, supposedly, but it was traditional for no one to touch it beforehand.
The Choosing order was well established and very simple: it went in age order. Technically that meant Aunt Sybil was first in line, followed by the remainder of Lord Henry’s siblings and cousins, but that was mostly for form’s sake; everyone knew Stariel wouldn’t choose from its old lord’s generation.
Around the inner circle of eligible family members and the outer circle of their wider relations was a crowd made up of those who lived within Stariel’s borders as well as some of the neighbouring nobility, come to greet their new neighbour at the earliest opportunity. The night was chill but clear, and small braziers glowed around the field that contained the old stone circle. The smell of roast chestnuts lingered in the air. It put Hetta in mind of a village fair. Her eye caught on a blond man among the villagers, staring intently at Marius. As she watched, his gaze flicked from Marius to Jack and back again. And we to be the entertainment, she thought wryly.
Hetta saw Marius’s eyes lock onto the blond man for a moment, and she wondered if they knew each other before Marius’s gaze moved on over the crowd. Her brother’s face was pale but determined. The terrible tension Hetta had observed in him over the last week seemed to have eased. He even smiled when he caught her eye.
“Should I wish you luck?” She reached out to squeeze his hand. Marius shook his head but squeezed back gratefully.
Jack was practically quivering with ill-suppressed excitement and nerves, his attention fixed on the Star Stone. Everyone else was trying, and failing, not to look like they were glancing back and forth between Jack on one side of the circle and Marius on the other, the two most likely candidates for lord.
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