by Pamela Aidan
“There is no mystery in this, Fletcher.” His focus returned to his valet. “Her Ladyship’s mother furnished her daughter with a means to a future in the only way that her stepsons were likely to heed.”
“The mystery, sir, is that the lady has refused to entertain any of the prospects His Lordship has lured to Norwycke Castle, and no one can answer for it!” Fletcher answered, obviously vexed with the resistance he had encountered. “Neither His Lordship nor his brother has yet been able to prevail upon her to choose a husband from among their acquaintances or attend any public or private assembly in which to meet other eligible gentlemen. The two are said to be enraged with behavior that can only make their own situation more desperate the longer the lady refuses.”
A scene from the previous evening flashed before him: Trenholme seething in a fit of anger while Lady Sylvanie calmly looked through him. The explanation for this curious exchange was now evident. Trenholme had been attempting to force her attendance among the gentlemen for the evening, and Lady Sylvanie had been in the midst of a cool refusal when he entered the room. The lady’s eyes had then met his, and the lady had stayed.
“From all I can observe, sir,” Fletcher continued in the same vexed tone, “it is nonsensical that Lady Sylvanie would wish to prolong her stay at Norwycke Castle. Far more reasonable to expect that she would hasten to take advantage of the opportunity her mother has bought her. Yet she stays, and none can furnish a reason for her obduracy. On this there is absolute silence!” Fletcher fairly shook with irritation. “The lady confides in no one but her maid — an old and close servant brought with her from Ireland who, in turn, treats with none but her mistress. The household servants hold her in aversion and, when she is about, take care to be out of her way.” Fletcher paused to heave a long sigh. “It is she of whom I wrote in the note, Mr. Darcy. The old woman bears watching, and that is what I was about for the better part of this night, but with little success. I very much doubt,” he concluded abjectly, “that I shall be able to cozen anything from her, sir.”
Darcy yawned again as the clock struck the quarter hour. The truth that lurked beyond Fletcher’s information was too well masked to reason out while his brain and body insistently demanded the sweet relief of sleep. It required a clearer head than he was now possessed of. But the man’s faithful service needed to be commended first; it was his duty to his valet every bit as much as taking a wife was his duty to his family’s name.
“Well done, Fletcher,” he stated with unfeigned sincerity. “I could not have discovered a quarter as much had I a week! You have more than earned the sleep that is fast claiming us both.”
The valet’s anxious countenance relaxed at Darcy’s words, but when he arose from his acknowledging bow, his face was once more deeply etched with lines of concern. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy, but I cannot be easy about the matter. It is a veritable serpent’s egg that could well hatch at any time to your harm. With your permission, I will set up in the dressing room and lodge there until it is killed in its shell or we leave this place.”
“You do not put any credence in these Othellian ‘charms and conjurations,’ I hope!” Darcy peered at him curiously.
“Certainly not, Mr. Darcy!” Fletcher protested. “Any unnatural power called upon by such revolting fardels was rendered impotent long ago. It is the natural evil and the desperation behind such pitiable delusions that I respect, sir. I will not presume upon Providence when Heaven has furnished a warning.”
“As you wish.” Darcy was too tired to object to Fletcher’s plan and not at all certain it was not a wise precaution. It had all become too deep to reject out of hand anything that would contribute to his advantage. He lay back on the pillows of the grandly ornate bedstead.
“Goodnight then, Mr. Darcy.” Fletcher bowed again. “And God be with you, sir,” he added, closing the dressing room door softly behind him.
Chapter 9
The Whirligig of Time
The very last person that Darcy expected to find upon entering the breakfast room the next afternoon was the not-so-Honorable Beverly Trenholme. But there he was — his elbows propped on the table and his head resting in both hands, a large mug of steaming black coffee set just inches away from his nose. His head came up momentarily upon hearing Darcy’s footsteps on the polished wooden floor, but only long enough to identify their owner before dropping again into his hands.
“Oh…it is you, Darcy.” Trenholme groaned as he gingerly rubbed his temples.
“Evidently,” Darcy returned brusquely and went over to the buffet board to find something with which to break his fast. Trenholme’s bizarre behavior of the previous day coupled with Fletcher’s discoveries made the man’s company difficult to bear. If it were not for the rumbling of his stomach, Darcy would happily have quit the room. In fact, Fletcher had asked whether he would prefer a tray this morning, but he had refused in the little hope that something might cross his path which would lend rationality to the events of the day before. Instead, he was to be burdened with a sullen, reprehensible excuse for a gentleman as a dining companion.
Trenholme winced so terribly when Darcy set his plate and saucer upon the table that he was sorely tempted to let his silverware drop on the polished surface as well. But years of good breeding intervened against the impulse. Laying them down quietly, he took his seat with the intent of finishing quickly and ignoring Trenholme’s presence as much as possible. His companion obliged him by remaining silent through most of the meal, entertaining Darcy only with intermittent groans and sighs as the bracing brew before his nose was slowly and carefully consumed. Left thus to the contemplation of his own situation, Darcy chewed meditatively upon the country ham, boiled eggs, and buttered toast that made up the selections upon his plate. His situation was one that a hasty removal from Norwycke Castle would appear to solve admirably, but such a course could be considered nothing less than an insult to his host. This he was almost willing to brave save for what the desertion might portend for a certain lady. The protective nature embedded in his character that so sheltered his sister was awakened on behalf of the castle’s beleaguered daughter. Although that impulse had not as yet brought him to the point of wishing to offer for her, he could not abandon her to the machinations of her relatives or, his lip curled in distaste, whomever was playing at sorcerer.
Offer for her. The thought returned to tease him. What would life be like with Lady Sylvanie at his side? In terms of breeding, manners, and understanding, she was well qualified to become mistress of his estate and mother of his heirs. He could not ask for a woman with a more austerely beautiful bearing who yet had something of poetry about her. Because she was the daughter of a marquis, any gentleman of discrimination would consider her an asset to his consequence despite her lack of dowry. In addition to practical considerations, he was inclined toward her. Her company was preferable to any other at Norwycke, certainly, and to that of most young women who had been pressed upon him as suitable mates. Then also, as his wife, she would have his protection from those who troubled her and the position and dignity she had been so cruelly denied.
His thoughts flitted then to more intimate aspects of the question. She was fiercely beautiful, and her passion obviously ran deep; but would it turn to him? Would she ever love him, welcome him? Absently, Darcy’s fingers went to his waistcoat pocket. What was this? Glancing quickly at Trenholme, who was still contemplating the interiors of his eyelids, he dug a finger into his pocket and slowly withdrew the silk strands that had lain curled in its depth. Elizabeth. His vision of Lady Sylvanie as mistress of his heart and home melted away in the instant it took Darcy to acknowledge what lay in his palm.
“Reading your own palm, Darcy?” Trenholme interrupted his thoughts. Darcy closed his fingers about the strands and tucked them back inside his pocket with a promise to himself of an interview with Fletcher on how they came to be there.
“Is that commonly done hereabouts?” he responded, gazing indifferently at Trenholme.
“This is your country, man! You should know far better than I,” he answered with an edge of irritation.
“My brother’s country, which he is fast losing to the squeeze crabs. You see how he is! I expect he will begin laying his bets with the family silver any time now!” Trenholme laughed, the bitterness returned. “If only…”
“Yes?” Darcy invited him to continue, curious whether his companion would confess to him the business of the dowager’s will.
“Well, all is not lost…not completely. It is just a matter of the proper persuasion in certain quarters.” Trenholme returned to a study of his mug of coffee, signaling that the subject was closed.
The polite response, Darcy knew, was an expression of good fortune, but he held his tongue. Such a wish might be construed wrongly and would, he was sure, redound upon Lady Sylvanie, the “quarter” to which Trenholme must have referred. He tried a different tack.
“At the Stones, Trenholme, you said that what we saw was ‘beyond everything.’ Have there been other incidents of the like?”
“Like and not like.” Trenholme eyed him over his mug. “There have always been superstitions and legends about the Stones. We have had visitors, even from the Continent, come and make a great deal of nonsense about them. Daffy some of them, too, wanting permission to prance about them…well, indecently.” He placed the mug carefully on the table. “And, of course, the locals in the villages hereabouts sometimes leave tokens — charms, that sort of thing — lying about, hoping for good luck of one sort or another.” He sighed, then laughed. “Perhaps I ought to give it a go myself. Cannot possibly make things worse!”
“No ritual sacrifices, then?” Darcy persisted.
“I had heard that a rabbit was found a month ago.” Trenholme shook his head slowly. “And then there was a kitten from the stable back in the fall, but they’d had their necks —” Trenholme’s mouth suddenly snapped shut, and his focus reached past Darcy to the door of the breakfast room. Before Darcy could turn, Trenholme resumed in a queer, strangled voice. “Poachers! It was poachers; I’ve no doubt. Gamekeeper after them, you know, and they cast away the booty!”
“But you said a kitten…”
“Poachers, Darcy, simple as that, no doubt of it at all!” He pushed back his chair and rose hurriedly. “Must forgive me…forgot something.” In a moment he was gone, and Darcy was left staring in perplexity at his empty chair. What had Trenholme seen that had so unnerved him he’d squealed like a trapped hare before taking himself out of his way? Turning around, Darcy peered at the equally empty doorway. Castle? He was beginning to think it a madhouse!
Although it was now midaternoon, Darcy found himself still quite alone after making a finish of his repast and downing several cups of coffee. He looked out the window and conceded that, as welcome a diversion as it would be, a ride was out of the question. The sky was overcast in a manner that warned of more snow, and the wind had kicked up so that the panes rattled in their frames and whistled round the corners of the castle in a most forlorn key. It appeared that he must amuse himself indoors this day, at least until some other guest or his hosts came downstairs. Where to go? His usual retreat of the library was denied him unless he retrieved a book from his own travel bag first. But he was too restive, and the activity he craved would not be satisfied with a book. He strolled out of the breakfast room into the hall and paused. The old armory! He had wanted another look at the sword with which Sayre was baiting him during their nightly gaming. Mayhap he would make his host another offer and be done with it. If what Fletcher reported was as true as the evidence seemed to indicate, a generous offer for it might not be refused.
Heartened by the thought, Darcy made his way to the gun room, encountering a servant here and there along the way but otherwise meeting no one. There was, of course, no fire in the room, rendering it chill; but the warmth of his enthusiasm for the weaponry displayed there was proof against its effects. The collection was, indeed, superb. The sword in which he was interested was one of several with impressive, documented histories. Still, the Spanish saber was far and away the most exquisite of the lot, and Darcy grimaced at the pains he might have to take and the coin he would undoubtedly have to expend in order to possess it. As he reached out his hand to run his fingers over the object of his desire, the door behind him clicked open. Dropping his hand to his side, he turned to receive the newcomer.
“Lady Sylvanie!” He bowed smoothly, but when he came up, it was to perceive that she was not alone. “Ma’am.” He offered another bow to the stranger.
“Your reputation for politeness is well deserved, sir.” Lady Sylvanie curtsied, a smile for him upon her face. “But this is merely my former nurse, now maid, Mrs. Doyle.”
“Your servant, sir,” Mrs. Doyle murmured as she curtsied.
“Ma’am,” Darcy repeated with a nod to her. So this was the mysterious maid who had vexed Fletcher so! His valet’s word that she was one to be watched echoed in his mind, and he determined to observe her closely. An initial, furtive examination disclosed nothing remarkable about her save that she was quite old and suffered from a hunched back that caused her head to hang awkwardly, requiring her to look up from under her brows whenever she was addressed.
“We have interrupted your admiration of my brother’s collection, I fear.” Lady Sylvanie swept past him.
“It is a very impressive one, my lady.” He turned, following after her. “It is probably one of the finest in the country save for the Regent’s.”
“You have seen the Regent’s collection?” she queried him, her eyes alight with interest.
“No, my lady, not in person. I claim no intimacy with His Royal Highness, but Brougham, a good friend of mine, had the privilege and presented me a copy of the catalog, which,” he added with a smile at her light laugh, “I read thoroughly. I am a collector myself, ma’am, although not in the same society as your brother.”
“Which is your favorite, Mr. Darcy?” She waved her hand to indicate the entire room. “What piece would you choose if you could convince Sayre to part with it?” Darcy’s eyes were already upon it as she spoke. “Ah, this one,” the lady’s voice dropped almost to a whisper as she reached out and ran her fingers over the top of the blade and caressed the intricacies of the hilt. “It is beautiful, Mr. Darcy. Have you held it, tried it?”
“Y-yes,” he stammered, her closeness and her fingering of the sword strangely affecting his senses. “The night I arrived, he allowed me to test it in exercise. It is as well balanced as it is beautiful.”
“A true work of art, then,” the lady concluded softly. Darcy could only nod under the smoky intensity of her eyes turned upon him. “Perfect utility and perfect grace — a deadly beauty, crafted to kill exquisitely. Is it its beauty that makes such a thing admired by the world, I wonder, or simply that it is a man’s weapon?”
Confounded by her words, he could find nothing to reply but only stared back into her eyes. Both were made mindful of this impropriety by Mrs. Doyle, who vigorously cleared her throat behind them. “Ahem, my lady, were you not intending to show the gentleman the gallery?”
“Yes, thank you, Doyle.” Lady Sylvanie recollected herself. “You have not seen the portrait gallery at Norwycke, I trust, Mr. Darcy?”
“I have not had that pleasure, my lady. Will you guide me?” Darcy offered his arm, thankful for both the maid’s interruption and a reason to put his body into purposeful motion.
“It will be my pleasure, sir.” She curled her hand lightly around his forearm. Their passage was not rapid or direct. The warren that was the hallways of the old castle prevented such a modern transition from one locale to the other. On their way, Darcy was shown other rooms and halls that Sayre an
cestors had built, modified, or refurbished, the grandest being the ballroom, over which, it was said, Queen Elizabeth had presided one evening in a surprise visit to her loyal retainer. Darcy could not help but wonder at Lady Sylvanie’s enthusiasm for each nook and cranny through which she conducted him. The lady at his side took just such a pride in all she showed him that one would have thought she had been resident all her life and not lately recalled from a twelve-year exile in Ireland. Of that, she had not yet made mention, although she must have known that he had known Sayre and Trenholme for years.
“At last, we are arrived.” Lady Sylvanie’s grasp on his arm tightened as they turned in to a hall that in every way invited a promenade. Although the sky had darkened, a remarkable amount of light still illuminated the wide hall from the row of windows that extended down one side of the gallery and fell gently upon the paintings that lined the opposite wall. The Sayre family was an old one, and portraits from almost every generation since the 1300s looked down upon them in stiff hauteur. Except for an occasional intrusion of work by a portraitist from the Dutch or Flemish school, it was not until they reached those of the last century that the portraits took on a more human aspect and their subjects became real, identifiable people.
To Darcy’s surprise, the lady knew them all, or was prompted gently by Mrs. Doyle, and happily pointed them out to him as they walked slowly down the gallery. But as they approached the far end, he could sense a disturbance in her manner. Her voice took on a higher tone, and her bearing seemed to vibrate with restrained emotion. In the waning light she brought them to a halt at a large portrait of a man, his wife, and their two children. Darcy knew it must be of the former Lord Sayre and his first wife. The children were, undoubtedly, Sayre and his brother.
