by Unknown
It was dark when the train drew into Southing station.
‘Southing!’ bellowed the stationmaster. ‘Anyone for Southing alight here.’
‘Wake up!’ Rosa shook Alex’s shoulder and they stumbled out of the first-class carriage and on to the station platform. For a moment Rosa could see nothing but steam and smoke, just lights twinkling through the white drifting clouds. Then the train gave a wheesh and a whistle and was off, and the platform began to clear.
‘Mr and Miss Greenwood?’ enquired a voice from behind them and Rosa swung round. A groom in neat livery was standing beside the exit, a porter next to him, with their trunks piled on his trolley.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Come this way, please – miss, sir. My name is Cummings. Mr Sebastian regrets he couldn’t come himself, but asked me to convey his warmest welcome.’
Outside the carriage stood a boy holding the horses’ heads. The groom handed them up, tipped a coin to the boy and the porter, and then clicked to the horses. At last, with a jerk and a clatter of hooves, they were off.
Rosa sank into the velvet-upholstered cushions and looked about her at the polished walnut gleaming in the light from the carriage lamps, the silk drapes, the hot bricks at her feet. Then she looked down at her skirts, so drab against the raspberry-coloured velvet of the seat. Alexis was not too bad, at least not in the low lamplight of the carriage interior. His boots were irreproachable, his coat well cut and not too worn, and his top hat was new. But his clothes had always been the first priority and he had been full grown when Papa died.
Rosa had long since grown out of the clothes bought in their prosperity and after Alexis’ new suits and clothes were paid for there had somehow never been enough left to pay for extras for her. She hadn’t minded – there seemed little point in new frocks to wear at Matchenham, with only the horses and Mama to mind whether the hems of her skirts were let out and her pinafores frayed. But now, in the luxurious interior of the carriage she saw, more clearly than ever, the worn patches on her thin, cheap cloak and the stains on her skirt. She whispered a spell under her breath and scrutinized the threadbare material, praying to God that the enchantment would hold, in spite of her tiredness, and that Sebastian would not notice the cheap deception. Most men could be relied upon not to see the small charms of vanity – the smoothing of wrinkles, the patching of a frock, the enchantment of grey hairs. But Sebastian was not most men.
‘How far is the house?’ she whispered to Alexis as the coachman tipped his whip to the horses.
‘Oh, not far. Twenty minutes perhaps. Most of it’s Seb’s drive, to be honest. But you’ve been to Southing before, haven’t you?’
‘I don’t think so.’ She looked out of the window at the unfamiliar cottages and the shapes of the hills. The village houses were built of Sussex flint, like those round Matchenham, so they looked homely, but she was sure she had never seen them before. ‘I was never allowed to come when you went for holidays. Perhaps I came with Mama and Papa when I was very small – but I don’t remember if so.’
‘Huh. Perhaps you’re right.’ He turned up his collar and closed his eyes. ‘Hope the sot has made it all right with the horses. Think he knows which end of a train is which?’
‘Don’t be hateful.’ Rosa turned her face to the window, watching the dark countryside flash past. Rain speckled at the windows and in the far-off distance she heard the scream of the train as it disappeared into the night. ‘Does Sebastian know we’re bringing him?’
‘Well, I don’t suppose he thinks we’ve packed the horses in our trunks,’ Alexis drawled.
‘No, that we’re bringing an . . .’ She lowered her voice, even though the coachman was outside the box and could not possibly hear. ‘An outwith.’
‘He knows. We won’t be the only people with an outwith servant. I don’t suppose the Southing servants will be very pleased, but they’ll be used to it. He’ll be out in the stables anyway, so he won’t interfere with the house servants. Now, shut up, do. I’ve a hell of a headache and your chatter isn’t helping.’
Rosa was about to snap back a retort, but there was a sudden rumble as they passed over a cattle grid and then two huge gateposts and a gatekeeper’s cottage loomed out of the darkness. She pressed her face to the glass, her anger forgotten as she peered into the night.
The drive wound through woods and fields, and she realized that Alexis had not been joking when he said that most of the twenty-minute drive was within the grounds of Southing. She caught glimpses between the trees: tall chimneys, glinting golden lights. But the architect who had built Southing had seated it in the landscape so that you never saw the house itself until the last possible moment – and then suddenly it was there, in one breathtaking sweep, as the carriage rounded the last curve of the drive.
‘Oh . . .’ Rosa breathed. Her breath frosted the glass, making golden halos of the lamps that lit the carriage drive and the tall pillared porch.
A footman stepped forward to open the carriage and she stepped, as if in a dream, into the cold country night, lit by a horned moon, a thousand stars, and the golden light that streamed from the windows of Southing.
‘Miss Greenwood.’
For a minute she couldn’t work out where the voice was coming from, who would be calling her name in this strange place. There was someone coming down the steps, but the light streamed out from the tall doorway, dazzling her eyes. Then she saw. Sebastian.
‘Mr Knyvet.’
He was dressed in evening dress, with a faultless white shirt and tie, and holding a tiny cheroot with a gold-wrapped tip which he threw away as he descended the steps towards her. His head was bare and the lamps shone on his dark-golden hair as he bent over her hand.
‘Miss Greenwood. I am so very, very pleased to welcome you to Southing,’ he said, in his soft, hoarse voice. And he smiled – not his usual sardonic twist of a smile, but a true, wide smile that changed his whole face and made him look more like a boy than a man.
He opened his palm and in his hand was a single rose, made of frost and ice and magic.
‘Se— Mr Knyvet . . .’ Rosa stammered. She looked over her shoulder reflexively, looking for the footman but Sebastian only smiled.
‘Don’t worry, he’s one of us. Take it. I made it for you.’
‘Thank you.’ She took it from his hand. It was perfect – down to every frozen stamen. Even the thorns were sharp enough to prick. She looked down at it, marvelling as it melted, its beauty slipping away through her gloved fingers.
‘Seb!’ There was a squeak of carriage springs and a crunch of gravel as Alexis heaved himself out of the carriage and on to the drive. ‘What ho! Game for a hand of baccarat tonight?’
Rosa looked up and then back down to where the frozen rose had lain. There was nothing left but water.
The elderly white-haired groom was a witch. It was all Luke could think of as he followed in the man’s footsteps, trying desperately to concentrate on everything the man was saying. This stall for Cherry, this for Brimstone, over there was the tack room, but here was where to put the saddles for cleaning. He knew this information was what he’d need to survive – but the man was a witch. Not a very good one – his magic was a fragile will-o’-the-wisp in the night air. But a witch, nonetheless. And it made it impossible to concentrate on what he was saying.
‘Eh, are you listening?’
‘Sorry.’ Luke stumbled. He rubbed his face, feeling his stubble rasp across his palm. He needed a shave and a wash, but most of all a good night’s sleep. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said, now the horses are settled, I’ll show ee to tha room. Where’s tha traps, boy?’
‘My traps?’ Luke echoed stupidly. The old man’s country burr was hard to understand.
‘Tha traps – bags, kit. What do ee call ’em in Lunnon?’
‘Oh.’ Luke shook himsel
f. He’d got so used in London to the servants’ hall being a refuge away from their kind, it was doubly strange to find one of them here, on what felt like safe ground. ‘Sorry. I left ’em in the yard.’
‘Come on then, laddie, pick ’em up, and we’ll get ee settled afore supper. Ye’ll be clemmed, I shouldn’t wonder.’
He stumped off across the yard and Luke followed.
‘When will the hunt start?’
‘Oh, they’ll be hunting tomorrer,’ the old man said. ‘Mr Sebastian was never one to let the grass grow. He’s been cooped up in Lunnon these long months and in India afore that. He’s half mad to get wet pasture under his horse’s hooves agin.’
‘I’ve never been hunting,’ Luke said as he picked up his case. He didn’t try to hide his nerves. No use pretending he wasn’t as green as they came for this – he would take any information this old man could give him, and welcome. ‘Anything I should know for tomorrow?’
‘Well, I seed your master and miss only brought the one ’orse each, so I dare say Mr Sebastian will lend ee one o’ his father’s hacks. Bumblebee most likely. It’ll be your job to get your master and Miss’s ’orses ready on the day. And o’ course you’ve to make sure Miss Greenwood doesn’t go killing of herself.’
Luke nearly dropped his case, cold with horror that the man had reached inside his thoughts so simply, but then the man laughed, a loud raucous belly laugh, and Luke realized it was a joke.
‘Sounds simple enough,’ the old man wheezed, ‘but it’s them young ladies you’ve to keep your eye on, ’specially if she doesn’t know the lie of the land. Make sure now she doesn’t go leaping no treacherous ditches, nor taking no ’edges too high for her. And keep her away from Bishop’s Ford,’ he added, his face suddenly serious. ‘That bridge won’t last the season.’
‘Bishop’s Ford?’ Luke asked. ‘Where’s that?’
‘Old ford to the east; you’ll know it by the wooden bridge and the two oak trees either side. The bridge looks sound enough but there’s a strut gone and it won’t bear an ’orse. I’ve said time and agin they should take it down, but the telegraph boys use it for their round. It’s safe enough on foot, leastways until the winter. But not for an ’orse and rider. If you want to cross on horseback you mun’ go farther upstream, towards Barham. There’s a good bridge there; that’s the one the hunters will take, if they’re heading for Thatcher’s Covert.’
‘I’ll remember,’ Luke said numbly. He hardly noticed as the old man handed him to a maid at the back door, nor as she led him through a warren of subterranean passages and rooms to a back staircase, chattering all the while. As he trudged after her, up the narrow staircase towards the attic room that was to be his for the weekend, there was only one thought in his head, and it sang through him, like metal singing from the clean blows of a hammer: Bishop’s Ford.
It was as William had said: providence had handed him a gift straight from God. Now it was up to him not to waste it.
As she descended the great stairs, the hubbub of voices hit Rosa first, followed by the heat as she entered the drawing room. It was a huge, long room with tall windows, panelled walls and a ceiling frosted and frilled like a wedding cake. The heat came from the fireplaces at each end, great cavernous things banked with giant logs the size of small trees, burning so briskly that the ladies nearby had retreated behind fire screens and fans. Rosa felt her face flush warm in the glow and she thought of how her pink skin must clash with her hair. She tugged at the green dress, wishing it were not so shabby and so tight, wishing the bodice were not so low, wishing it were not the dress Sebastian had seen her wear last time he came. She prayed that he wouldn’t notice. She prayed that if he did, he didn’t realize the truth: that it was almost the only presentable dress she possessed.
There was no one there that she knew. Alexis must have retreated to the smoking room with his cronies, where she could not follow. She scanned the crowd, looking for Sebastian, but knowing even if she saw him, she would not have the courage to stride up and claim him. She was just considering turning tail and running when she felt a touch on her arm and a soft voice spoke.
‘Are you Miss Greenwood?’
Rosa turned. A white-haired girl with piercingly beautiful blue eyes stood at her shoulder. She was perhaps a year or two younger than Rosa herself, her hair hanging in a long plait down her back.
Her eyes were clear and lucent as a summer sky, a startlingly true blue, quite different from the arctic paleness of Sebastian’s gaze, and yet there was enough similarity in their faces for Rosa to ask, ‘Are you Sebastian’s sister?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘My name is Cassandra. Sebastian has told me a great deal about you.’
‘Oh.’ Rosa blushed furiously. ‘I . . .’ She found she was stammering, tongue-tied.
‘All very pleasant. And proper.’
Her words should have reassured. But it was somehow disquieting that Cassandra felt Rosa might be in doubt.
‘I’m delighted to meet you,’ Rosa said, putting out her hand, and Cassandra took it, smiling warmly. ‘But please, call me Rosa.’
‘Rosa, then, and you must call me Cassie.’
‘Cassie,’ Rosa said, and smiled back. ‘But tell me, are your father and mother here? I haven’t yet paid them my respects.’
‘My father has been called to the Ealdwitan on urgent business,’ Cassie said. ‘He hopes to return on Monday.’
‘And your mother?’
‘My mother . . .’ She hesitated. ‘My mother is . . . not well. She does not enjoy company. She will not be joining us this evening.’
For a moment Rosa was taken aback. A hostess not to come down to dinner on the first night of a house party? Then she recovered her manners.
‘Well – well then, I shall hope to see her tomorrow. Will you be hunting?’
‘I?’ Cassie’s face was surprised for a moment, then she broke into a laugh. ‘No. Not I.’ Before Rosa had time to wonder why, she added, ‘I’m blind.’
‘Oh!’ Rosa flushed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said meaninglessly, and then winced, wondering if that was the right thing to say.
‘Don’t be,’ the girl said lightly. ‘It has its compensations.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t have to do embroidery,’ she said with a laugh. ‘There are other things too – I can see more, perhaps, than you.’
‘More? What do you mean?’
But just then a huge gong rang out and everyone stood.
‘Dinner,’ said Cassie. ‘Will you walk in with me?’
‘No,’ said a voice at her elbow. ‘Miss Greenwood walks in with me.’
Rosa turned and looked up into Sebastian’s clear blue eyes, a winter blue above his snowy-white cravat, and he smiled, a wicked, teasing flash that twisted in her gut and her heart. He held out an arm and two impulses fought inside her – the desire to take his arm, his protection, and walk into dinner with the most eligible bachelor in the room, perhaps in the entire county. And the desire to shake her head, prick his arrogance, and give her arm to Cassandra.
She was still standing like a fool, looking up at Sebastian when Cassie spoke.
‘Ah, Rosa, I’m so sorry. I had forgotten that I was supposed to accompany Lord Grieves’ son.’ She smiled, her blue eyes full of summer warmth. Rosa smiled back, forgetting that Cassie couldn’t see her.
‘Good,’ Sebastian said very softly in her ear as they turned to walk into dinner. ‘I want you all to myself.’
His lips were warm against her ear and Rosa shivered as his breath tickled the soft hairs against her neck. Her grip tightened on his arm and she felt the iron hardness of the muscles beneath his dinner jacket, so different from Alexis, soft from drink and lassitude.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked as they passed through the double doors into the dining ro
om. The panelled walls were studded with the heads of stags mounted on wooden blocks, their antlers casting strange shadows in the candlelight. Between the heads were savagely beautiful fans of glittering swords, pistols and daggers. And beneath it all was the long table, aglow with candles reflecting off the crystal glasses and silver cutlery arrayed to each side of the plates, dazzling against the faultless snowy cloth.
I was thinking you are as contradictory as this room, Rosa thought. Beautiful and savage and urbane, all at the same time.
But she only shook her head and passed under the arc of swords to take her place at the glittering table.
Luke woke very early and for a minute he had no idea where he was. He lay in the darkness, listening to the strange sounds – the soft insistent hoot of an owl, the wind in the trees. And the sound of breathing in the bed across the other side of the room – not William, but a stranger.
Then he remembered.
He was at Southing. The man in the bed opposite was another groom and, thank God, an ordinary man like himself. He was not sure he could have borne to sleep in the same room as a witch. And he had just nine days left to complete his task.
He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Then, with a glance to make sure the man in the bed opposite was sound asleep, he pulled down the neck of his shirt and twisted to look at the scar on his shoulder. It was all but healed and beneath the angry red swelling you could just see the faint shape of a hammer.
He shrugged his shirt back on and then swung his legs out of bed, feeling his head spin with tiredness. The other man had a watch hanging from his bedpost and Luke padded across and looked at it, yawning. Half past five, read the dial. Good.
He ran down the back stairs in his stockinged feet, pulling his boots on at the last moment. The door to the gardens was bolted, but when he pulled back the latch he was relieved to find it was not locked. The country air hit him as he walked out into the pre-dawn gloaming. It smelt so different from London – cold and clear as spring water, the soft aromatic scent of wood smoke in place of the sharpness of coal, the dampness of grass instead of the smell of wet cobbles.
