Upon arriving at the music room, Henry heard the piano, played beautifully by a competent pair of hands. He stepped inside, finding the house’s complement of patients chatting amiably whilst listening to Bunting play the haunting melody. To Henry’s delight, everyone looked happy—a major accomplishment for so varied and often melancholy an assembly. He decided to sit with Bunting and visit with her for a few minutes.
The woman rarely smiled, but she did so as he approached, her white hands pausing upon the keys.
“Do you play, Dr. MacAlpin?” she asked him timidly.
“A little. My grandmother insisted I take lessons from her cousin, but I’m hardly proficient. Was that Chopin?”
“Yes! Do you know it? I so love this nocturne. He wrote it in 1832. He was only thirty-nine when he died. Isn’t that terribly sad? Such a gifted composer, yet so tragic a life! Do you think he ever found love, Doctor? I’ve read that he and the woman novelist, George Sand, loved one another, which gives me hope. Mademoiselle Sand, or la Sand as she was sometimes called, was hardly the epitome of femininity, nor was she young. Yet, she refused to compromise. I wonder, must a woman become an ageless doormat to find a man’s shoes beneath her bed?”
This last question was thoroughly inconsistent with Bunting’s genteel, even timid manner. Henry hoped no one else heard it; but of course, everyone had. He searched for the right words to answer, not wishing to confirm the girl’s idee fixe that she was somehow old and ugly. Indeed, Gillian was quite beautiful. Lithe, tall, fair-haired with large blue eyes and copper lashes set against alabaster skin.
“Truly, Miss Bunting, such a question has never occurred to me. Perhaps, one of the ladies might offer a reply. I fear my maleness rather disqualifies me.”
“Oh, but it makes you all the more qualified! Isn’t that true, Miss Stuart?” she asked Violet, who sat five feet away, reading the evening papers.
“If my life has included experience of the kind required to offer an educated reply, then I’ve quite forgotten it, Miss Bunting,” she answered gently. “I’m sure Dr. MacAlpin appreciates all women, don’t you?”
“I most certainly do,” he replied quickly.
Gosberg had only recently begun to speak in these gatherings, but even he offered an opinion of sorts. “Shoes beneath the bed do not mean love within the heart, Miss Bunting. True love should be the goal for a lady of breeding, not a ring on one’s finger. My Alice was such a lady. And also our girls. No, no, dear friend, I do not intend to retreat into melancholia, I merely honour them. Would you play another for us, Miss Bunting? You have such a delicate touch.”
“Yes, would you?” asked Henry. “I’ll move over here, but only to appreciate the notes better. Perhaps, another Chopin?”
“Yes, yes! Another Chopin!” the gathering shouted in unison.
She began the Opus 9 nocturne, and he could see her eyes drift into a dream as her dainty fingers danced upon the keys. Henry wondered what thoughts now governed the woman’s restless mind.
“You should be careful,” whispered Violet. “Gillian’s going through a bad patch.”
“How so?” asked Henry. “She’s not mentioned it to me.”
“She wouldn’t,” answered Violet. “It’s the kind of thing she’d only tell another woman.”
“But I’m her doctor,” he whispered.
“Exactly.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Miss Stuart. Just what...?”
He had no chance to complete the question, for his butler Saunders entered with a note.
“From Lord Aubrey, sir. He asks that you come to Branham right away.”
Standing to read the message, the viscount ran a hand through his curling hair. “Have Mrs. Winstead meet me in my office right away, Saunders. When is the next train to Branham?”
“Not until tomorrow, sir, but the policeman who delivered the message says there’s a special awaiting you at Victoria. Lord Aubrey’s train, sir.”
MacAlpin felt all at sea. He’d not planned to leave for Kent until the twenty-third, accompanying Joseph Merrick and the Castle Company. Only an emergency would cause Aubrey to send such a message tonight.
Please, Lord, let it not be Elizabeth!
“Everyone, do forgive me. As you know, I’d planned to be away for Christmas, but I hadn’t intended to leave you so soon. I’m afraid this message changes all that. I pray you’ll take care of one another whilst I’m away. Dr. Hepplewhite is capable and quite agreeable, and I think you’ll find him a far better musician than I. He also loves Chopin, Miss Bunting. I’ll stop in for a moment once I’m ready to say goodbye, but again, forgive the sudden change of plans.”
He rushed from the room and into the library to pack his medical bag. If something had happened to Elizabeth, he had no guarantee of a chemist’s shop. His thoughts ran in a dozen directions at once. It felt all too similar to the night when Romanov had taken him to the castle.
As he added a fresh bottle of laudanum to the bag, he felt an odd sensation along the back of his neck; as though every hair stood on end. He turned slowly, certain someone had entered without speaking.
“Do I startle you?” spoke a familiar voice.
Henry nearly collapsed with relief. “You do come and go without warning, Your Highness. Why are you here?”
Romanov laughed softly as he shut the door. “I have always admired your directness, Lord Salperton. It is refreshing, compared to the circuitous conversations I endure at Whitehall. Forgive the sudden intrusion, but I thought it pertinent to speak with you before you leave.”
“You know I’m leaving? Wait, of course, you do. You know everything that happens, I imagine.”
“Not everything,” the elohim answered. “Only the One can make that claim. I merely use the eyes of my helpers to obtain information. It is not Elizabeth who is ill, but a dear friend to her. I can tell you this much: without your skills, the man will die. George Price is experienced and knowledgeable, but his perceptions for diagnosis pale to your own. He’s going to miss a key component to the young man’s condition.”
“Price is a fine doctor. I really doubt my powers of observation and diagnosis are any better.”
“You see things Price cannot. Look with eyes of the spirit, Henry. Branham’s east wing has many phantoms. And when you are there, tell Charles that another of my kind has just arisen in France, and even as we speak, this powerful prince unfurls his wings and grows strong. Tell him I shall speak to him in person after he remembers the mirror in the attic.”
“Mirror? Attic? What the devil do you mean by that?”
“It will make sense to Charles, but only when he remembers. Also, I have placed wards over your gardener’s cottage to protect your new patient. These will not obscure it from human eyes but only from the spirit realm. Gehlen’s mind and soul are under attack, but he will recover. The one who’s been using him is presently distracted by the ceremony in France, but my wards will deny his return.”
“None of that makes sense,” complained Salperton. “Do speak plainly for once!”
“Very well,” answered the Russian. “Saraqael, one of my rebel brethren, has been assuming control of Dr. Gehlen’s mind. Raziel, in the guise of a physician named Emile Sandoval, placed a mark upon Gehlen in 1879 that allows such outside control.”
“Then, Gehlen is possessed?” asked Henry.
“Not permanently. The mark allows temporary infestation only.”
“How is that?”
“Dr. Gehlen never invited the mark; it was forced upon him. Free will is the law, Henry. Raziel bent that law by using an old ruse. He hoped the subterfuge would allow a wolf to enter your homes in the fair guise of a trusted sheep.”
“Gehlen, you mean?”
“Indeed. What Raziel did not realise is that Saraqael is disobedient. He intentionally made his presence known to you.”
“By his behaviour at the theatre?” asked Henry. “But why?”
“Because Sara intends to remove Raziel from power.”
“You mean he’s planning a coup?”
“A very bloody one, yes. Saraqael now sows discord amongst the Redwing members, knowing Raziel will slay all those who betray him. What you call spiritual activity will increase in the coming months. All the realms are awakening, and the sleepers within them stir to rise. Your place in this battle is beside Charles and Elizabeth.”
Anatole started to go, but Henry reached out, daring to grasp the mysterious entity’s arm. “You cannot leave yet, please! What of Gehlen? You tell me that my place is with the Sinclairs, but how can I abandon a fellow physician when he’s in so much pain?”
Romanov’s icy eyes softened with boundless compassion, and he touched Henry’s shoulder gently. “You have great love within you, Henry. Your mother would be proud. But fear not for Anthony. The One allowed this test for him, for he foreknew what struggles were required to bring Gehlen to salvation. Even now, Dr. MacPherson is sharing the gospel message with him; and by morning, Anthony will be protected by the Saviour’s blood. Eventually, Gehlen will sit at the inner circle table, but he had to pass through the trial by fire first. His experiences will aid all of you in the coming years; but more so—and this is why he is so very important in the battle—Anthony Gehlen will one day save the life of Robby Sinclair.”
“He’ll do what?” asked Henry, but Romanov offered no reply. The elusive elohim had vanished.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Branham Hall
Two hours before Henry left for Victoria Station, Elizabeth Sinclair turned her thoughts to Branham business. Despite the flurry of activity and upset at the hall over the missing Cambridge men, she’d tried to keep as many of her scheduled meetings as possible. Each year at this time, the young duchess was accustomed to examining the various estate accounts with an eye towards plans for the year to come. So, when Hiram Eberly arrived from Gravesend at half past six with a briefcase filled with reports, the duchess asked Esther Alcorn to take charge of the women volunteers.
Beth had been reading through the steward’s summaries for nearly a quarter of an hour, slowly turning ledger pages, but saying nothing. Her carved Rococo desk and matching chair stood before a set of French doors that overlooked the hall’s central courtyard. A cheerful fire warmed the air, and beside it, snored a pair of black Labradors. In all, three men awaited Elizabeth’s approval, sitting in a row near the desk, patiently awaiting her decisions as nightingales and owls flitted across the gaslit courtyard, the slender twigs moving beneath each bird’s weight. A mouse scampered along one of the brickways, a bit of bread in its teeth, but before it could reach its home inside an elm tree, the owl pounced, devouring it in one gulp.
Unaware of the life and death struggle, the duchess glanced up from the ledgers. “Mr. Eberly, you’ve been my steward for how many years?”
“Nearly a decade, Your Grace,” the fifty-three-year-old estate manager replied confidently.
“You took over for Mr. Prudeau during very difficult days, and since that time, I’ve come to depend upon your opinion. I find nothing out of the ordinary with any of the other estates. Beau Rêve in upstate New York is easy, as it’s been shuttered for ten years. The Scotland and Ireland properties are in fine shape. Queen Anne is now looked after by my husband’s manager as part of his new ICI endeavour. You have met with the manager, I hope?”
“Yes, ma’am. And I’ve sent Mr. Dryden all the books.”
“Good. We’ve transferred control of the houses in France and Spain to M’sieur Rebolet, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am, as of the first of January. Shall I meet with him next month?”
“Please do. The wineries in particular require close management. I understand the new root stock we obtained from America has helped overcome the blight that’s plagued our grapes for the past few decades.”
“The grafted vines have grown very well and are quite vigorous. DuBonnier Winery will bottle a new vintage of Bordeaux next year, ma’am. They’d like to call it Saint Clair Royale, in honour of the duke.”
Beth smiled. “I take it the people of France have also read the rumours of my husband’s lineage.”
“They have, indeed, my lady. May I approve the name?”
“Yes, I think so. Please, tell them we look forward to trying the new vintage when it’s available. My husband and I may visit DuBonnier whilst in France next autumn. I must say, you’re doing an excellent job for us, Mr. Eberly. An excellent job. However,” she added gently, “I noticed one odd entry in the Branham ledger, regarding the loss of Ambrose Aurelius. I’ve spoken with Mr. Clark, and both he and Mr. Soames estimate the loss of Ambrose at nearly five thousand pounds, yet your figure is far less than that amount. Can you explain that?”
Hiram Eberly had replaced a disgraced and hastily dismissed Louis Prudeau after Cornelius Baxter discovered the indiscreet bookkeeper had spied for Sir William Trent. The reckless estate manager avoided arrest only because he fled England’s shores and hadn’t been seen or heard of since. Three months later, in June of ‘79, Eberly was hired by Duke James (Hiram’s father having served the duke for thirty-six years without one error in judgement or a single bad report). Not once in all the years since, had Duchess Elizabeth questioned Eberly’s advice or his character.
“If you’d do me the honour of reading through to the end, Your Grace,” he explained, “you’ll see that I was able to recover a portion of the horse’s value from the seller, Sir Ralph Menderson. His lordship deeply regrets the loss of so fine an animal and offered to shoulder part of the burden. Hence, the final loss of three thousand pounds.”
“I see,” Elizabeth said as she glanced through the final paragraphs of the annual report. “I take it you’ve no objection to my writing to Sir Ralph? His willingness to assume part of the loss is admirable, though contrary to his usual business dealings. As I recall from the contract, I bought Ambrose Aurelius with the understanding that only undisclosed health problems, provable through veterinary examination, would invalidate the purchase. When Mr. Soames examined Ambrose on arrival here, he pronounced the stallion fit and capable. I’d owned Ambrose for three months prior to his death, and I’m happy to read in Mr. Clark’s report that six of our finest mares are now pregnant, thanks to Ambrose’s capability. Dr. Stillwell’s necropsy revealed no discernable illness, only a tiny wound and great loss of blood. How did you persuade Sir Ralph to be so very reasonable, Mr. Eberly?”
Eberly squirmed upon the chair, his grey eyes shifting from side to side. “Soames thought the horse looked lame when he arrived, my lady. He had an odd gait. That’s what I told his lordship.”
Andy Soames shook his head adamantly. “I said no such thing, Your Grace. If you’ll read my report, you’ll see the stallion was in perfect condition when he was taken to stable, as his capability can attest. I know my business, and the stallion’s subsequent death from whatever insect or animal preyed upon him had nothing to do with any previous condition!”
“Calm yourself, Mr. Soames,” she said quietly. “I do not question your integrity, nor do I question that of Mr. Eberly, I merely want to get to the bottom of the discrepancy. I take my job as custodian of the Branham estate very seriously, and I look to each of you to help me in that endeavour. I wish only to pass a sound and successful legacy to my children. That is all.”
She paused to make sure the men understood her position. Beth made a mental note of Eberly’s clear discomfort, but decided against pursuing it any further for the present.
“Now, there is another topic which requires your attention, gentlemen. Given our current worries for the missing men, it feels somewhat strange to discuss this, but May is but five months away, and planning must begin soon. I speak, of course, of the fête. As you know, the seventh of May marks the four-hundredth anniversary of Br
anham’s annual festival, and I’d like to suggest a theme which honours that long tradition. I wonder, might we construct a reproduction of the Golden Hall?”
“The Golden Hall, my lady?” asked Soames. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“It was the very first celebration,” she answered. “There’s a painting in the upper gallery which you might use as inspiration. In 1489, Duke Henry’s carpenters constructed seven marquees, each made from red and gold, painted canvas, encamped round a much larger, golden marquee which served as the focal point for food, dancing, and general celebrations. The duke’s idea was later copied by King Francis when he met with Henry VIII at Calais. Le Camp du Drap D’Or is how historians refer to it. The Field of the Golden Cloth. That magnificent tent city was built by the French king as the site of their peace negotiations. Sadly, those talks broke down in like manner to the painted tents. I wonder, gentlemen, might we reconstruct Branham’s original Golden Hall? We should have begun planning this years ago, but is it feasible, Mr. Wendt?”
Alvin Wendt was fifty-one, able-bodied, and wise. His seamed face widened with pride as he confidently replied. “Not only can my men and I achieve it, my lady, but we’ll do so with great energy and purpose. You’ve but to give us your plans.”
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