“I understood Lady Burton had filled it in years ago.”
“The woods did it for her.” He turned his head from side to side, frowning at the trees. “Over there, I think. It’s been a while since I visited it.”
They pushed through a stand of beeches and skirted a muddy pond like the one Penelope had tumbled into. Squinting at the sky and trees from time to time, Mr. Vane led her around a patch of bramble bushes and down a gentle slope. Abigail couldn’t see anything that looked remotely like a grotto. She had imagined a clearing, with an archway or a gate and stone steps leading into a cleft in the ground, perhaps with a stream running down the middle: something dramatic and worthy of its mystical name. Instead they were in a thick spot of forest, shaded by the canopy of trees overhead and surrounded by overgrown shrubbery running rampant over a small rise. Wild harebells grew all around them. It was quiet and shady, but there was no sign of a cave when Mr. Vane finally stopped.
As if he could read her thoughts, he cocked one brow. “Disappointed?”
“Not at all!” She turned around, searching for any glimpse of the grotto. “I just—I just don’t see it yet . . .”
“And yet you’re less than ten feet from it.” She peered at the ground as if it might erupt at her feet, and he shook his head. “It took me nearly ten years to discover it.”
“I don’t doubt it,” she murmured. “But why did you let it disappear into the forest again?”
His expression turned wry as he unsheathed a large knife that had been strapped against his good leg. “Once I found it, my curiosity was satisfied; its elusiveness made it fascinating, and once it was no longer elusive, I was content to leave it as it was.” He strode forward and began cutting at the vines and plants that covered a large boulder.
Abigail seated herself on a nearby fallen tree and watched as he worked. “Perhaps it will so move me, I’ll be drawn back. Perhaps I’ll restore it and care for it and come often, if it proves a refuge.”
“Oh?” He took off his hat and tossed it onto a nearby bush. “Why would you need a refuge?”
His hair was brown, falling to his collar with a gentle wave. Abigail watched the few stray beams of sunlight dapple his head and shoulders as he bent down to rip out some sprawling plant. She followed his example and shed her own bonnet, placing it on the trunk beside her. “Why wouldn’t I need a refuge?” she parried his question. “Who can say they never have need of a quiet, private place?”
“Who, indeed?” he muttered, lifting a fallen sapling and shoving it aside. “The grounds of Hart House offer no quiet place?”
“Not enough of one. No sooner do I find one than my sister is sure to invade it and pester me with some mad scheme or diversion; she’s utterly bored in Richmond.” While his back was turned, she took out the hunk of cheese, wrapped in cloth, from her pocket and broke off a small chunk for Boris, who lapped it from her fingertips gently and eagerly.
“Your sister was with you in the bookshop the other day. I presume she enjoys that better than the woods?”
Abigail pressed her lips together, remembering what Penelope had made her buy in the bookshop. “Yes.”
“Is it a refuge from her you seek?”
“Sometimes.” She felt bad impugning her sister, and fed Boris another morsel of cheese in atonement. “Not often. Penelope is the best sister in the world. But when she’s bored, she can be a trifle . . .”
“Tiresome?” he suggested when she hesitated.
“Demanding.”
He grunted, slashing a trailing vine from the path he was clearing. “So demanding she compels you to dig up a long-buried grotto?”
“I never demanded that. You offered,” Abigail pointed out.
His dark eyes turned toward her. She tensed for him to argue, but he only slid his knife back into the sheath strapped at his hip. “So I did.” He swept one arm to the side. “Your grotto, my lady.”
She jumped to her feet and scanned the ground. “Where?”
“Come.” He retrieved his cane—again she realized he’d set it aside without her noticing—and waved her to come closer. “The steps become visible only a moment before you fall headfirst down them.”
She edged closer, finally spying the rough stone stair disappearing into the earth. Vines still rambled over the opening, but he had cleared away just enough to expose the top few steps. They must have been completely covered. “How did you ever discover it?”
“By falling headfirst down it one day. The vines appear solid, but if you walk on them . . .” He grimaced.
She took a cautious step down, and then another. “It seems as though the earth will swallow us up.”
He stepped down behind her and put his hand at her back. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it doesn’t.” Together they went down, slowly and carefully. Mr. Vane pushed back the encroaching vines just enough to allow them to squeeze under, and when they reached the bottom, there was enough space to stand comfortably upright.
It was cool and dark, but remarkably dry. As her eyes adjusted, Abigail could make out the stone walls cutting down into the earth. Dry leaves crunched underfoot as she went forward one step, then another. Ahead of her was only darkness, thick and impenetrable. “We should have brought a torch,” she said, starting as her voice echoed back at her. “We can hardly explore if we’re blind.”
“You didn’t bring a candle?”
She glanced at him, but as it often was, his expression was neutral. “I didn’t think of it,” she confessed. She didn’t add that she’d thought mostly of seeing him, and had presumed that if they found the grotto at all, it would only be after some considerable searching.
Mr. Vane gave a small shake of his head as he rummaged in his pocket. “You must think through all the consequences of your actions, Miss Weston.” He drew out a short candle and a flint. “Grottos are dark places.”
“I knew that.”
When he had lit the candle, he handed it to her. The light of a single flame didn’t illuminate very far, but against the absolute blackness of the grotto, it seemed brilliant. “Lead the way.”
“How far does it go?” She took the candle carefully, avoiding a stream of wax that ran down the side. “Will we come out by the river if we just keep going?”
“I don’t know. I never just kept going.”
“Why not? I thought it was your childhood dream to discover it. How could you not explore every inch of it, once you found it?” she asked teasingly.
He ran one hand over his head. “I only found it the night before I left to join my regiment, bound for Spain in ’11. I hadn’t time that night to explore every inch, and later . . .” He shrugged.
Abigail hastily turned away. Later he had been wounded, occupied with an infirm parent, and then dogged by rumors of madness, murder, and theft. “Then we shall explore it now together,” she said firmly, holding the light aloft and starting forward. “And if we locate any buried treasure, we will share it evenly.”
“I would be content not to locate any wild animals.”
She laughed, the sound ringing around them. “Won’t Boris defend us?”
“Boris won’t come down here. He prefers to remain above ground.” He turned and looked up. “See?”
Abigail peered past him to see Boris watching from the top of the stairs. He showed no sign of following them, but sat with his head cocked to one side as if wondering what made them do something so foolish as descend into the earth. “I hope we won’t need him.”
She fancied Mr. Vane almost smiled for a moment. “I hope not, too.”
Slowly they proceeded down the passage. After about ten feet it turned sharply to the left, and once around the turn the dim light from the opening vanished. With the light seemed to go the last trace of warmth as well, and Abigail shivered as she hiked her shawl over her shoulders.
“Are you col
d?” murmured Mr. Vane, very close behind her.
“Not much. I think it was just the sunlight disappearing.”
His eyes reflected the candle’s flame. In the flickering light his face was imposing and forbidding, and Abigail’s stomach twisted in on itself. She didn’t really know him, but here she was exploring a cave with him in secret. “Don’t be nervous,” he said softly, as if he could read her thoughts. “I have a good sense of direction. I shan’t let us get lost.”
“I feel as though we should be unspooling a string behind us, to follow back.”
The corner of his mouth crooked upward. “Have you brought a string?”
“No.”
“Neither have I.” He looked at her. “Shall we go back?”
With a deep breath, she shook her head and moved forward. Slowly they followed the passage as it turned and curved deeper into the ground—or so Abigail imagined. Her fears of getting lost faded, though, as there were no other passages branching to the sides, just the one they followed. The air grew cooler, scented with moist earth and moss. Every now and then a wisp of air rushed past them, making the flame dance, and once Abigail thought she heard the distant scurrying of tiny feet, although she never saw the creature.
“Why do you think you never found it when you were a boy?” she asked. His footsteps echoed louder than hers, as his boots scuffed the stone floor and his cane gave a soft tap with every step.
“Lack of focus, most likely. It didn’t take much to distract us once we were deep in the woods.”
“Us?”
He hesitated. “I wasn’t the only boy in Richmond keen to discover the grotto. It was the object of many grandiose plans.”
“Such as?” She wondered what he’d been like as a boy, before terrible things had happened to him.
“The usual pursuits of boys,” he said vaguely. “Hiding from tutors, escaping punishment, and so on. Much like your sister mentioned yesterday, it seemed an ideal refuge, hidden in the woods and thought by most people to be long lost.”
“But ten years! It must have seemed ridiculous that you would find it by accident, after spending all those years searching for it.”
“We spent more of our time close to the river,” he said. “The trees were better for climbing there.”
“Of course.” She laughed, until the candle flickered wildly. She stopped dead in her tracks.
“What’s wrong?” He put his hand on her back and stepped in front of her, as if he could see better than she could what lay ahead.
“I thought the candle would go out,” she whispered, staring at the dancing flame and willing it to stay lit.
For a moment they both remained motionless, mesmerized by the flame. “We should turn back,” said Mr. Vane.
The flame steadied, and so did Abigail’s nerve. She looked up at him. “Not yet. See? It’s fine.” The flame burned as brightly as ever. It was reflected in his dark eyes as he looked down at her, his hand still on her back, his arm still around her.
“As you wish.” He let her go and swept out his arm, beckoning her to take the lead again. “Let us continue, then.”
It seemed they had been walking forever, although Abigail thought that if their path were laid out aboveground and well lit, it would probably fit inside the dining room at Hart House. And still the darkness stretched ahead of them without end. She would never have admitted it aloud, but the grotto was proving a little disappointing. It was just a narrow passage under ground, as dark as sin and as cold as winter. She hadn’t really expected it to hold a magnificent pool lined with mosaics and statues, as she’d seen in one illustration, but she had expected there to be something of interest. Who would simply dig a tunnel in the middle of a forest? Finally, just as she was beginning to wonder how deep it was—or if they ought to turn back—the grotto opened up. The ceiling rose above them, the walls expanded, and she realized they had come to a chamber. And there was something about the walls . . .
“Look,” she gasped. “The walls are sparkling!”
Mr. Vane put out his hand. “Cut glass, embedded in the walls.”
“Oh, if only we’d brought more candles!” Abigail held the lone light up, watching the flame dance and flicker in the thousands of shards of glass covering the walls. “What a marvel! Who would have guessed it from the surface?”
“Someone went to some trouble,” he agreed.
“Well.” She grinned. “It’s a sort of buried treasure, I suppose.”
He turned and looked at her. Again the candlelight caught his eyes. “Cut glass isn’t a treasure.”
“But the beauty it can present is.” She moved the candle in an arc, smiling at the sparks that seemed to leap from the walls. It would be magnificent in the light of a dozen candles.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“It’s quite the most marvelous thing I’ve ever seen.” She roamed around the chamber, holding the candle close to the walls to see the glass. “Goodness! How much effort must have gone into creating this room!”
“I agree.” He didn’t follow her, and when she turned around she could hardly see him. Outside the limited range of her candle, he was cloaked in shadow, his neck cloth and face ghostly in the dark.
She studied the sparkling glass. Each shard seemed to be set just so into the walls, creating a mosaic of color. “It makes one wonder why the grotto was allowed to fall into such disuse. Although I suppose it isn’t very convenient to the house.”
“I’ve noticed that when people want something enough, there is no inconvenience that cannot be overcome,” he said after a moment.
She smiled. “True. I certainly shan’t be put off visiting again.” She continued walking around the room, following the wall and watching the flame’s reflection leap from shard to shard. Every now and then she noticed some bits of silvered glass, mirroring the light of her candle better than the rest.
“So you’ve seen the mysterious grotto; are you ready to go home now?” he asked after she had gone all the way around the chamber.
It was so quiet and still, she could hear her own breath. She wasn’t ready at all to leave. “So soon?”
He didn’t move. “What else is there to do?”
She wanted to sit and study the walls. She wanted to spread a blanket on the floor and spend an hour here, teasing more of those elusive smiles from him. But there was no blanket, they had only one candle, and she suddenly felt unsure of herself.
“Miss Weston,” he said when she didn’t answer his question, “we should go. Before anything regrettable happens.”
She wet her lips. “What do you plan to do that you might regret, Mr. Vane?”
The question seemed to check him. He turned away, tipping back his head to survey the ceiling, which seemed to be just as encrusted as the walls. “I never plan to do anything regarding you, and yet somehow something happens every time we meet.”
“Surely you cannot regret this.” She raised the candle high again. “Wouldn’t you have explored the grotto earlier if you had known this might be here?”
Slowly he turned to face her again. “No.”
“No?” she exclaimed in astonishment.
“It wouldn’t have been the same.”
“Yes, it would have,” she protested. “I don’t think anyone’s touched it in decades—”
“It wouldn’t have been the same,” he repeated, “without you.”
Abigail’s heart leapt into her throat. She drew an unsteady breath, and the flame flickered as her fingers clenched around the candle.
“It’s not safe to explore a cave alone,” he went on, his voice still low. “Promise me you won’t come again on your own.”
“I want to see this room again, with more light . . .”
He hesitated, and seemed to retreat into reserve again. “I only asked that you promise not to come alone. Bri
ng your sister, if you want, and a supply of lanterns.” His words echoed as he headed back the way they had come, out of the chamber.
Abigail felt another pang of disappointment, but started after him. Even with the candle, she didn’t want to be alone in the grotto. “Mr. Vane, wait,” she called, just as another stray puff of air caught the candle flame and snuffed it out before she could shelter it. She froze, paralyzed by the swift plunge into absolute darkness. “Mr. Vane?” she said, her voice rising a little.
“I’m here.” This time she heard his cane, tapping firmly on the floor. “Keep talking and don’t move.”
“I’m not very frightened of the dark, but this came on a little suddenly.” Her eyes felt like they were turning inside out, she was staring so intently into the void. “And now it does seem as though we walked a very long way to get to this chamber, and how shall we find our way out without the candle?”
“We’ll find our way out.” His voice was as steady and matter-of-fact as ever, which calmed her nerves somewhat. She could hear his steps still, but because of the echo she had no idea if he was getting closer to her or farther away. Her own feet felt glued to the floor, as if to move would be to become irretrievably lost.
“Do you still have your flint? I hope we can relight the candle. Next time I shall bring a lantern, I swear!” She gave a shaky laugh.
“I still have the flint, right in my pocket.”
“Thank goodness!” She tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a gasp of terror. “I knew we ought to have brought Boris. He could have led us out . . .”
He gave a soft tsk. “Boris would be useless. He would eat your cheese and run off to follow some scent.”
“Truly?” Her skin was beginning to crawl. She imagined the ceiling of the chamber collapsing and entombing them both. Her parents would never know what had happened to her.
“Truly. He’s also a little afraid of the dark.” The soft tap of his cane sounded nearer, to Abigail’s straining ears.
“Is he?” She gulped. “I couldn’t blame him for being frightened of this darkness.”
“Everything is exactly the same as it was when you could see,” he said. “Close your eyes and you won’t know it’s dark.”
It Takes a Scandal Page 11
