The Gentleman's Quest

by Camille Elliot

  There was a wooden chair near the fireplace. "Honoria, lend me your handkerchief."

  She handed it to him. "Where is yours?"

  "Hopelessly soiled yesterday in the carriage."

  "Oh." Her eyes widened, then her mouth twisted as if she were trying not to smile. "I never apologized for Sally's, er … accident, did I?"

  "I magnanimously forgive your oversight." He swept the wooden seat clean of dust with her handkerchief, then gestured for her to sit.

  She did, and her eyes twinkled up at him. She was about to speak when they heard footsteps approaching.

  The door flung open, and Aubrey's mother burst in. She had come in from the garden, because her yellow muslin gown had grass stains near the hem and the edges of her long sleeves. "Honoria, what a pleasant surprise. And Mr. Creager, we recently saw your sister and mother in town this past season."

  Honoria moved forward to kiss her aunt's cheek. Christopher could smell the woman's strong perfume even from several feet away, and it was choking when he bowed over her hand.

  "Have you no tea?" Mrs. Dunbar gave an exasperated huff. "Worthless servants. I shall ring for a pot for you directly."

  "There is no need, Aunt," Honoria assured her.

  "Of course there is every need." Mrs. Dunbar gave the bell-pull in the corner a yank. "I certainly cannot have Mr. Creager reporting to his mother any shabbiness of hospitality from Merritton." She gave Christopher a winsome smile to indicate she was teasing, but he could see past her practiced charm quite easily.

  She was hoping in his influence over his sister, and her ten thousand pound dowry, should her bachelor son come calling at Heathcliffe Manor.

  "Oh, Aunt—" Honoria said as Mrs. Dunbar settled onto the sofa—and the grease stain—but it was too late.

  Only after she was seated did Mrs. Dunbar seem to realize the absence of Lady Merritt. "Honoria, I do hope your mother is well?"

  "Quite well. She is busy running my uncle's household and caring for him," Honoria said.

  Mrs. Dunbar wanted more of an explanation than that. "It must have been quite a journey for you from his home to Merritton."

  "Which was why Mr. Creager offered to escort me." Ever the lady, Honoria continued politely, "Your lavender is quite breathtaking, Aunt Dunbar. I was pleasantly surprised as we drove up to the house."

  "It was such an ordeal to find the particular lavender plants I wanted for the perfect effect."

  Christopher found his mind wandering as Mrs. Dunbar expounded upon her gardening difficulties, which were apparently enormous. Even the tardy appearance of a servant to receive the order for tea did not interrupt her. Honoria looked intently interested in her aunt's conversation, although he caught her gloved hands fidgeting a time or two.

  In the middle of her aunt's discourse, Honoria asked, "Aubrey is well? He is away from home?"

  "Oh, he is always complaining about something or other, but yes, he is well. He went out shooting early this morning. As I mentioned, my pear trees …"

  Only when the tea tray had finally arrived did Mrs. Dunbar realize she still didn't know why Honoria had come from so far away to visit. "Now, my dear, I shall not forget to send that cutting home with you for your mother. You are on some errand for her, I suppose?"

  "Yes, Aunt." There was a tinge of relief in Honoria's smile. "We were hoping to look at some old family records in the library."

  "Old records? Whatever for?"

  "It is my doing, ma'am," Christopher said. "I found Stephen's old puzzle box and brought it to her. It is an old Dunbar heirloom, and we were curious about who had made it."

  "Oh," Mrs. Dunbar said. "Oughtn't it to belong to Aubrey?"

  "It is not part of the estate," Honoria said quickly, "and mother has grown quite attached to it, since it had been a favorite toy of Stephen's."

  "I daresay she has grown maudlin and nostalgic. But why did she not come herself and stay for a fortnight? She could look through the family records to her heart's content."

  "My uncle could not spare her, so she sent me in her stead," Honoria said. "I do hope Aubrey will not mind if we borrow a record or two."

  "I am sure he will not care in the least, he is so accommodating."

  Christopher was hard pressed to keep from choking.

  Mrs. Dunbar continued, "He has always been particularly fond of you, Honoria. I never understood why you had to move away so precipitously all those years ago. I should not have minded if you had stayed on for another few months, at least."

  "I felt my mother needed the comfort of her brother after the shocking death of her son," Honoria said evenly. "I am sure you can understand what her sentiments were at the time."

  "Oh, I cannot imagine how terrible it would be if something happened to Aubrey." Mrs. Dunbar made a show of dabbing her handkerchief to her eyes.

  Being reminded of Aubrey Dunbar made Christopher remember that he didn't want to be in this house when the man returned from shooting. "My dear Mrs. Dunbar, we have no wish to take up more of your valuable time. Why don't we look through the records so you may return to your gardening?"

  "Of course, you must look through the records. I shall have a tea tray brought to you in the library." She stood and led the way out of the drawing room and down the hallway toward the back of the house. "The library is quite cluttered. Aubrey is replacing the portraits, but the servants have not taken the old paintings up to the attic yet. It has been so difficult to find good servants. I don't know how your mother managed with the ones here when we arrived. I was forced to replace them all anew within a twelvemonth."

  "Oh?" Honoria was attempting to hide her surprise with politeness.

  "But the ones we've hired have been just as bad. They simply cannot follow instructions. We have had such a time keeping the house fully staffed."

  From the way Christopher had observed the servants interacting with Mrs. Dunbar, he suspected they did not respect her very much and indulged in lazy habits.

  Mrs. Dunbar opened the door to the library. Christopher was immediately assailed with the baleful gaze of a middle-aged woman in the garb of a century ago. It took him a moment to realize it was a portrait on the floor, leaning against the wall directly opposite the door.

  "Honoria, you are staying overnight? I will have a room made up for you directly. Mr. Creager, you will stay for dinner? Though your home is so near, you are welcome to remain here tonight as well."

  Panic threaded Honoria's voice as she said, "I am most grateful for your kindness, Aunt, but I must return to my mother with all speed."

  "But you have only just arrived. You cannot hasten away so soon. Mr. Creager must be exhausted from travel." Mrs. Dunbar gave him a toothy smile.

  "I am quite fit, Mrs. Dunbar," he said. "And unfortunately, I promised Honoria's mother that I would return her as soon as possible."

  Mrs. Dunbar pouted. "But surely you needn't run away so soon. It has been far too long since I last saw you both."

  Honoria had told Christopher once that despite her flightiness, Mrs. Dunbar had always had a good heart, which was perhaps why she now took her aunt's hands. "I shall speak to my mother, and perhaps we can make plans to visit in the spring."

  "Oh, that would be delightful. My pear trees will be in bloom. You know where everything is?" She waved a vague hand at the bookshelves along three of the four walls. "If you need anything, do not hesitate to ring for a servant. It may take them some time to respond, but they do eventually come. I shall return with the tea tray myself." And she left them.

  At first glance, traversing the length of the library looked like it would be walking the path of a labyrinth, but he realized only some of the furniture had been moved in order to access the paintings on the walls. The bookcases, attached to the walls, and their contents had not been touched.

  "If I remember, Stephen kept the maps here." Honoria swept past the portrait of the glaring woman and made her way toward the far wall, skirting other paintings leaning against walls, the desk, c
hairs, and small tables. The new paintings—most of them rather hideous hunting portraits—had already been hung in the spaces between the bookcases and over the fireplace.

  Christopher helped her move aside a large, heavy atlas in order to remove the maps, some folded, some curled into scrolls. He cleared space on the desk so they could look at them.

  With the parchment from the puzzle box spread on the desk, they began looking through all the maps, starting with the oldest. Honoria frowned at the old estate map, then the parchment Christopher had found. She turned the parchment on its side, then turned it again.

  The rattle of the door latch was their only warning before Mrs. Dunbar entered the library bearing a tea tray with cakes. She set it on a side table. "Here you are, my dears. If I had not brought this myself, the tea would have gone cold. Oh, maps?" She saw the large scroll unrolled on the desk.

  Christopher looked down and realized Honoria had whisked the parchment out of sight. "I noticed the coat of arms on this map," he said, pointing to the corner. "It is different from the coat of arms the family uses now, and I thought it might contain the same symbol that is on Stephen's puzzle box."

  "Oh, I know nothing about those things. Family history quite bores me, although Aubrey finds it all quite fascinating." She bustled to the door. "Take care to drink your tea while it is still hot." She left them.

  They ignored the tea and continued searching, but no matter how they turned the parchment around, the trees and other landmarks did not match any of the Merritton records.

  "If this is not of Merritton, then where could it be?" Honoria frowned at the parchment.

  "There are no other maps?"

  "These are all that I know of."

  "Perhaps there is another tucked away in here somewhere. Let's search."

  They separated and scanned the bookcases, but it soon became obvious that unless there was a folded map hidden amongst the books, there were no other maps to be found.

  A gasp from Honoria drew Christopher's attention. "What is it?"

  "I found Stephen's Bible." She drew the leather-bound book from the shelf in front of her.

  He remembered seeing his friend read it at numerous times. At university, at the end of a long day, he might sit up in bed and spend a few minutes flipping through the thin pages. After they had left school, Christopher would occasionally come upon Stephen in the library with the Bible open in his lap or on the desk, sometimes reading, sometimes staring blankly out the window. But always in private, never an ostentatious display of his righteousness.

  "He must have left it here rather than in his bedroom," she said, fingering the leather. Then she set it back on the shelf.

  "You don't wish to take it with you? It belonged to Stephen, not to Aubrey."

  "I already have my own Bible. So does Mother. There is no one …"

  Once, Stephen had seen Christopher's Bible on a shelf in the Heathcliffe study, blown the dust from it, and joked that a Bible was meant to be used, not kept like a particularly hideous vase that one couldn't get rid of because it had belonged to a long-dead relative.

  Christopher hesitated, then said, "I'll take it."

  Honoria gaped at him like a fish. "You?"

  "I do read it," he said defensively.

  She raised her eyebrows and said nothing.

  "Sometimes," he added.

  "Oh?" She crossed her arms. "When?"

  "Well … when I'm praying for the rain to stop, there's that chapter in Genesis …"

  "Oh, Christopher." She laughed. "You must be the despair of your local rector."

  "Actually, the new curate is quite a nice chap."

  "'Nice chap' means he's willing to drop everything to go fishing with you whenever you ask him to."

  "I'll have you know that we've had some rather good discussions."

  She gave him an arch look. "Oh, so he's willing to argue with you?"

  "Dash it all, Honoria. We do exchange ideas rather than simply roar at each other."

  "Do you?" She tilted her head.

  "It reminds me of when I used to talk to Stephen." He cleared his throat. "I suppose it has been a long while since I have had someone with whom to discourse."

  She opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it. Then opened it again, then closed it again.

  He leaned against the bookcase. "Honoria, I've never seen you refrain from saying what you are thinking."

  She sighed. "I think you keep too much to yourself. Why do you always have to be alone?"

  "I am not always—"

  "You are alone even when you are in the midst of a crowd."

  He did not need to ask her what she meant by that.

  She handed him the Bible and moved back toward the desk. "I am concerned that if you are alone for too long, you will have no one to show you …"

  He followed her. "Show me what?"

  "Grace." She began to roll up a map.

  That wasn't what he had expected her to say. Before he could answer, she added, "I do not know what is haunting you, but Northumberland has not enabled you to escape from it."

  Her words rooted him to the floor. Was that why he had moved so far away? To escape the spectre of Stephen's death? No, surely he had moved onto his farm because he wanted to move on, to start afresh.

  And yet the sight of her again, after all these years, had brought back all his regrets, had made him hold himself aloof from her even while they rode in the same carriage.

  But grace. It was simply a word to him. He had heard it all his life. He didn't know …

  The clock chimed on the mantel.

  Honoria glanced at it, startled. "When do you think Aubrey will return from shooting?"

  "It could be any moment, or it could be hours from now." He tucked the Bible into his jacket, now glad he had worn an unfashionable country style with large pockets. The book was heavy and caused his jacket to list to the left, but it made him almost feel as though Stephen stood beside him, his hand on his shoulder.

  Honoria sighed as she rolled up another map. "What should we do? These maps have been useless to us."

  He took the parchment and strode to the window, looking at it under the brighter light. He held it up to peer through it, but they had done this countless times yesterday in the carriage, and it yielded no secrets then or now. The parchment was a mystery to them, but …

  "The box," he said. "It was a spur of the moment pretext, but perhaps your family's coat of arms may give us a clue about the flower symbol. You said it was passed down from father to son in the Dunbar line. Who made it? How old is it?"

  "I don't know." She picked up the puzzle box from the desk and peered at it. "It isn't simply a design?"

  "It's an unusual design, painstakingly carved. It might be significant. Your coat of arms has altered over the years. Perhaps the flower is from an earlier version. Do you have drawings?"

  She turned in a circle, scanning the books on the shelves. "Perhaps old records, but they would be locked away in the study."

  "The family Bible?"

  "The one we have would only have the current coat of arms. It was purchased when Stephen was born. Mother said that the old one was rotting away, so it was discarded. But …" She turned again, except this time she seemed to be looking at the furniture. No, the paintings. "I remember seeing the old coat of arms on some of the portraits of previous Lord Merritts. They would be in the gallery."

  Christopher pocketed the parchment in his waistcoat as they left the library and ascended the staircase to the long gallery, a wide, chilly corridor that ran along one side of the house. Windows dotted the side facing the courtyard while paintings adorned the opposite wall.

  Honoria went to the portrait of the first Baron Merritt, but after squinting at it said, "It is too deteriorated to see the coat of arms clearly."

  Christopher stepped a few feet down the hallway to the portrait of the second Baron Merritt. "This one is clearer, but there is no flower in the emblem."

  Honoria joined
him and peered at the coat of arms on the bottom left corner, then at the flower carved into the box in her hands, then back at the coat of arms. "Sword, cudgel, and shield. No flower, certainly."

  "Rather bloodthirsty, your forefathers. Did they become more civilized?"

  She gave him a laughing glance. "The current coat of arms has mistletoe, which is poisonous."

  "Ah. Apparently not."

  They studied all the portraits but returned to the library disappointed.

  Honoria collapsed in an unladylike manner in a chair that was near the centre of the library, where it had been moved in order to remove the portrait of the glaring lady. "Somehow I thought this experience would be more fruitful and exciting."

  "We cannot give up." He now knew how much that treasure meant to her and her mother. He could do nothing about the limited options available to impoverished gentlewomen, but he would do all he could to keep her from the likes of Mr. Criddle.

  He could marry her himself.

  The thought sucked the breath from his lungs, but not with panic—simply with surprise. He felt as if sunlight were blazing from inside him.

  But he could not marry her without telling her the truth about Stephen. And he simply could not tell her. He hadn't the courage.

  She suddenly sat bolt upright. "Christopher!"

  "What is it?"

  Honoria had already shot to her feet and rushed to stand before the portrait of the glaring lady. Christopher reached her side as she bent close to the canvas, staring at the woman's brooch with elaborate gold filigree around the ivory oval.

  Delicately painted on the ivory in the picture was a five-petaled flower.

  Honoria held the puzzle box up next to the brooch, and the flower was a match. "I don't understand. She's not a Dunbar."

  "She's not a relation of yours?" That didn't make sense. Why did she have the same flower as the puzzle box, which was passed down through the Dunbar male line?