Alverness was an hour and a half’s drive south of Stariel, and notable for being the only town of much size this far north. Greymark was readily acknowledged as the true capital of the North, being quite five times as large as any other Northern city—although still nothing compared to Meridon—but Greymark was four hours’ train ride away.
They were going to a matinee—the days having grown too short to make driving in the evening desirable. It was a bright, crisp day, the sky a particularly brilliant shade of blue. Heavy frosts had become the norm over the last few weeks, but the ice had had time to melt by the time they set off, and Angus’s driving inspired confidence.
“I’ve been meaning to learn to drive,” she said without thinking. “It’s impossible to get anywhere up here without being able to do so!”
“I’m very happy to chauffeur you wherever you wish. Indeed, I don’t know how I could refuse you. You’re devilishly charming, you know.”
Hetta considered Angus thoughtfully. She was a little surprised that he hadn’t offered to teach her himself. Not that she’d intended her remark to prompt such an offer—but the fact that he hadn’t made her wonder. She had a sudden flash of insight that in his view it was unnecessary and undesirable for her to drive—as a lady she ought to commandeer a man to do so whenever needed. There were odd patches of old-fashionedness to Angus that Hetta would every now and then encounter.
Hetta felt the moment they passed Stariel’s bounds with an intensity she’d never before experienced. Stariel pulled at her, as if the land was reluctant to part with any of its people without a lord to anchor it. But the car’s movement was inexorable, and after a few dizzying seconds the sensation passed. Hetta felt lighter and strangely off-balance for it.
“Are you well?” Angus inquired.
Hetta nodded and forced a smile. “Stariel didn’t want to let me go today, it seems. But we’re beyond its reach now.”
Angus’s attention was primarily on the road, but she thought he looked thoughtful. “You don’t much talk about it, your land-sense, as you call it. None of the Valstars do. Reticent to a fault, the lot of you.”
Hetta laughed. “Hardly. It’s just that to us it’s a perfectly normal thing and to the rest of the world a highly peculiar one. And it’s not fashionable to talk of magic, you know.”
“It’s real, though? I had thought it merely a quaint tradition.”
“I’m sure the rest of the world thinks so,” Hetta said. “But I’m afraid it is real, gothic and fairytale-like though it seems.”
“And you all feel it?” Angus asked. “And you know when you’ve crossed the boundaries?”
Hetta nodded. “Yes, although some of us are aware of it more strongly than others. Jack has always been ascribed the strongest connection of our generation. When we were younger, he always had an uncanny knack for finding wild creatures, for instance. And he claimed to be able to feel storms when they rolled over the Indigoes, but that may have been exaggeration. Certainly my father could tell you what weather was about to come upon us.” When he was sober enough to pay attention to it.
Angus was quiet the rest of the drive, and Hetta didn’t try to coax him into further conversation. For herself, she was enjoying examining the countryside as they drove. The view was mainly farmland, a patchwork of mud-brown and green. The harvest had been some time ago now, but there were fields of winter crops sprinkled here and there: winter oats and swedes for livestock feed. Mostly, though, there were the grey blobs of muddied sheep. In the distance, the reddish brown of dying heather clothed the hills. Beyond lay the dark slopes of the mountains.
Angus recovered from his contemplative mood by the time they arrived in Alverness and became once more a charming companion. The theatre they patronised was called, unexcitingly, Alverness Theatre. Hetta hadn’t been here before. In her youth, she would have been awed by the golden cherubs adorning the entrance way and the decadent swirls of the carved ceiling. After six years spent haunting the theatres of Meridon, it seemed almost quaint. Something like homesickness rose in her as they made their way to their seats, but when Angus inquired if she was feeling quite the thing, she laughed.
“It’s only odd to see things from this angle, rather than the other side of the curtain.” He didn’t seem bothered by the mention of her old career, which was a refreshing change from her older relatives, who still treated it as something best not mentioned. She shook her head, some of her old anger returning. Why should paying people to raise sheep on your behalf be more respectable than performing magic with your own two hands?
The performance Angus had chosen was a reimagining of an old classic that Hetta had seen countless times before. Nevertheless, she enjoyed it. The actors were good, the set design well-considered, and Hetta was in a mood to be pleased. It was pleasant to take a momentary respite from the problems of Stariel in good company.
Angus took her out for tea afterwards. His manner was unusually serious as he offered her a sugared fig. “Sometimes I wonder if you aren’t merely dallying with my heart, lass.”
Hetta wanted very much to recapture the light-hearted tone of their previous communications. “I’m a highly incorrigible flirt. I fear I should have warned you!”
Angus accepted this sally with a brief grin, but all too quickly returned to sobriety. “You should have, if you’re not at least a little serious about me, Hetta. What would happen, I wonder, if I tried to make an honest woman of you?” This last was said with a mix of sincerity and jest, as if Angus were trying to judge her own response before committing his own.
“I fear that might be impossible!” Hetta said valiantly, heart racing. This was supposed to be a blithe afternoon away from complicated problems!
“Hetta.” Angus’s voice was reproachful. “You must have thought about it? We make a good pair, you and I. And I know you’ve troubles aplenty with the estate. I could help, you know, if you would but let me.”
He leaned forward as he said this and took her hand in his. Hetta blushed. She wanted very much to make a joke, but Angus deserved better than a vague misdirection as a response, so Hetta rallied and said lightly:
“I do care for you, my friend.” She extracted her hand from Angus’s. “And I do like spending time with you. But I have to admit I hadn’t considered…”
“Things from so serious an angle?” Angus supplied. He gave a deep, frustrated sigh.
“Well—no. You must think me an incorrigible flirt. I’m sorry.” And I’m an imposter.
“Well, I can’t deny that I’m disappointed, but I have to respect your plain speaking.” He smiled. “And you haven’t told me to give up hope entirely.” Hetta looked down at the lace tablecloth and tried not to fiddle with it. “But I don’t wish to discomfit you—exactly the opposite. Tell me, how are the preparations for the famous Stariel Frost Faire progressing?”
Hetta grasped at the change of subject with relief, and no more was mentioned of Angus’s declaration for the rest of the afternoon, nor as they drove back northwards. Fortunately, Angus, too, seemed to be deep in thought, and so she wasn’t called upon to converse intelligently.
Thoughts chased each other through Hetta’s mind. The play had reminded her of her old life—a life that she might soon be returning to—but that didn’t make her feel as relieved as she’d expected. And then there was Angus’s delicately phrased proposal. She wasn’t sure whether Angus would have made the same offer to just-Hetta-the-illusionist as opposed to Lord Henrietta Valstar. She supposed she would find out after the Frost Faire. But did she even want to find out? She’d approached all her interactions with Angus with the giddy infatuation of an eighteen-year-old, but she’d just been forcibly reminded that she wasn’t that eighteen-year-old anymore. What did Hetta want, when that girlhood crush was set aside?
Again, Hetta was startled out of her reverie by the sensation of crossing Stariel’s borders. She had the strong image of a friendly dog wagging its tail and trying to put its paws up on her in greeting. The sun
had set by the time they drew up to the house, though it wasn’t yet five o’clock. The days would continue to grow shorter until Wintersol, where the lengthening days would be balanced against the deepening cold. Angus gave her a considering look as he farewelled her, and she knew he was contemplating whether she would let him kiss her again.
Something of Hetta’s complicated feelings on the subject must have been evident, for he merely gave her a wry grin and said, “Thank you for your company, Hetta.” He paused. “I hope I have not worn out my welcome?”
“Not at all.” On impulse, she rose up on tiptoes to press a kiss against his cheek.
He chuckled and nodded at her as he left. “Ah, you give me hope yet. Take care.”
Hetta stared after him, conflicted.
31
The Bank Manager
Four days before the Frost Faire, Hetta received a note from Ida. Ida wrote with a genuine but slightly awkward gratitude, still fully aware that she’d taken a place Hetta coveted. But the letter didn’t bring the information Hetta had hoped:
I’m afraid your quarry seems to have left the country for opportunities abroad. None of his intimates seem to think he’ll be returning until after Wintersol at the soonest. And the man appears to have been remarkably tight-lipped about his clients. If I hadn’t thought to ask his landlady, I wouldn’t have found a soul among his acquaintance who knew he’d even been up north for a few days in October.
“Whoever hired him chose well, then,” Hetta mused aloud. She rose from her desk and went to look out at the view towards Starwater. “I wonder if he was merely recommended to them or if they knew him more personally?” James Snickett was a Meridon native, which meant that if her hunch was correct, the pool of Northern locals who would have had an opportunity to meet such a person was limited. A school friend was the first idea that presented itself to her. James Snickett was well-born; he would have attended one of the prep-schools for boys of wealthy and well-connected families. She cudgelled her brain to try to remember whether she had reason to know which specific boarding school he had attended, but if she’d ever known it, she couldn’t recall it now.
The grey weather outside perfectly reflected her frustration. The waters of the lake were choppy, tiny white caps creating a shifting pattern of white and deep green. She turned back and surveyed her study—it was becoming increasingly difficult to think of it as her father’s. She’d removed the stag’s head above the door without ceremony, relegating it to the attic. Her father might have been able to work cheerfully under its glassy stare, but she found the effect disconcerting. The racehorse painting had been similarly dealt with. In its place hung a bright watercolour of the Sun Theatre. Her gaze lingered on it.
Her introspection was interrupted by a polite knock at the door.
“My Star,” said Wyn. “The bank manager has arrived. Where would you like to receive him?”
She flashed a look at the clock, surprised that the appointed hour had come so quickly. “Here, I think. Show him up.”
Wyn nodded. “His name is Thompson.”
She’d feared that Mr Thompson would be of Mr Fisk’s ilk, but the man Wyn showed into the study couldn’t have resembled her whippet-like steward any less. Mr Thompson was a short, stout man, the same height as Hetta, dressed impeccably in a dark blue suit. Hetta was glad she’d chosen to hew to conservative fashion for today; even Aunt Sybil wouldn’t have taken exception to her dress. Though she might object to the lipstick, despite the demure shade.
He greeted her with a smile, extending a hand. Hetta took it and shook. His grip was firm but not overly so. Hetta had met many men who were so determined to give a firm handshake that they rather overshot the mark.
“Lord Valstar,” he said in greeting. “My name is Benjamin Thompson. I represent Gridwell’s Bank.”
“Will you take a seat?” Hetta waved at one of the two leather seats facing the large desk in the room. She took the other. It seemed ridiculous to sit behind a desk as if she were interviewing Mr Thompson.
After some preliminary pleasantries, Mr Thompson said, “I understand you’re wanting to run elektricity and phonelines out to Stariel House?”
“Precisely,” Hetta said. “I was hoping to arrange a loan to cover the additional expenditure. My steward tells me that the estate’s accounts run at a very tight margin and has advised against additional capital expenditure at this time, but in my view, these new technologies are essential and the sooner we upgrade, the better. I am hoping you may be able to advise me how it could be managed. I thought perhaps the Dower House could be rented out.” She considered for a moment and added, “I’m also considering whether investing in drains for some of Stariel’s low-lying land could be worthwhile.”
Mr Thompson’s eyebrows went up, but he did not give her an outright negative. “Well, shall we go through the accounts as they stand, then?”
She bestowed a warm smile upon him and slid the main accounts book across the desk to him. “Be my guest.”
Hetta wondered where Mr Fisk was. She’d sent Wyn to fetch him, but surely her steward hadn’t forgotten that the bank manager was visiting them today? But time ticked on and still he didn’t appear. A housemaid brought them refreshments, and Mr Thompson seemed favourably disposed towards the shortbread. He grew more engrossed in the accounts book, occasionally asking her for clarification. Hetta’s own time spent with them hadn’t gone to waste, for she found she was able, with some thought, to answer most of his enquiries. Mr Thompson’s expression grew pensive as he worked his way through, and eventually he fixed her with a steady gaze and declared that he would need to review the whole in detail, if she didn’t mind the time it would take. Hetta assented with some nervousness, busying herself with sorting through the latest house bills while Mr Thompson slowly turned the pages of the estate’s accounts books, occasionally making a note in a column of the notebook he had brought with him.
It was very dull work. The only sounds were the rustle of turning pages and the tick of the study clock against the background of the steady rain.
Hetta stood up to stretch her limbs and paused by the window. A pale-haired figure was visible coming across the lawns. It must be Wyn, though it was impossible to discern any familiarity in the figure at this distance. He shifted and revealed a red-haired figure behind him. Their movements invoked those of hunting wolves.
Uneasy, she returned to her desk. Time trickled by with oppressive slowness. Mr Thomspon’s expression grew increasingly serious as he worked his way through the accounts, every now and then making an annotation in his notebook. Eventually he sighed and glanced up.
“Lord Valstar, it grieves me to have to say this, but I fear your steward has not been doing his job as he ought.”
Hetta blinked at him. “Oh?”
Mr Thompson shut the accounts book with a snap. “He was correct when he said that Stariel operates at a very thin margin, but the chief reason for that, I am afraid, is a certain amount of accounts fudging.” He held up a stubby finger. “There may be some other explanation for it, but I fear that he may have been skimming from you.”
“I see.” Well, that certainly explained Mr Fisk’s absence today and his reluctance to invite the bank manager to Stariel in the first place. She wondered if he’d made good his escape or if there was still some chance of catching him. “Thank you for alerting me to this. Will you take me through the details?”
He did so, and she made herself focus. “So in terms of the loan for upgrading the house?” she asked after he had shown her the deceit.
Mr Thompson considered her solemnly for several long moments. “We would need a more fully worked through set of financial plans, but, yes, I think the bank may be persuaded, once they are assured the accounts are under the control of someone appropriate.”
Hetta’s eyebrows shot up. “I assure you, I intend to employ a more honest steward as soon as I may, but surely we may come to some sort of preliminary agreement in the meantime?”
&nb
sp; Mr Thompson looked faintly embarrassed.
“Oh. You mean that I am not deemed to be an appropriately responsible person, I take it?” Hetta said coldly. “Is this due to my qualifications or my gender?”
“Lord Valstar, I regret that…”
“My gender then, I take it.” Hetta stood. “Very well. I will contact you again once I have secured either a steward or a husband. I will show you out.”
Mr Thompson made several attempts to appease her as he packed up his briefcase, but she was in no mood for them.
The house felt emptier than usual as she wandered the rooms, searching for someone to tell her where her steward had disappeared to. She supposed Mr Fisk had made a break for it and wondered if that had anything to do with Jack and Wyn moving like hunters over the lawns. She found it hard to care very much whether they had located him or not; it wasn’t as if that would repair the harm he’d done to Stariel. It might be satisfying to yell at him for a while, but what then? Hetta supposed there would be an investigation, and policemen, and a whole lot more fuss that also would not do one whit of good for the estate.
Phoebe and Alexandra had been busy, she saw. Tinsel twined around the staircase banister, and holly and mistletoe hung from every appropriate outcrop, though it wasn’t yet December. Drawn by a cobweb of memory, she followed the decorations through to the ballroom, summoning a tiny ball of light to softly illuminate the cold space.
She smelled the tree before she saw it, the pine resin taking her straight back to childhood. She used to sneak down at night to sit beneath the tree, letting the smell envelop her. The tree had been set up on the far wall. The northern edge of the ballroom was lined with glass doors that could be opened out in a concertina fashion onto the terrace along that side of the house. It made the ballroom difficult to heat when it wasn’t packed full of guests, even with the large enclosed fireplace along the interior of one wall. It wasn’t lit tonight, and Hetta hugged herself to ward off the drop in temperature as she made her way over the wood-panelled floor.
The Lord of Stariel Page 19
