by Sandra Heath
She smiled. “Of course I don’t mind, Uncle. So, Gwilym really does have some strange power? I’m almost relieved to hear it, because when the front door opened and closed without him so much as raising a finger, I thought I was seeing things.”
“Seeing things? No. You’ll get used to it, and thankfully Gwilym is up at the castle most of the time.”
John eased himself down with a sigh. “Ah, that’s better. Driving a pony and trap in such weather soon reminds me of aches and pains I’d rather forget.” Settled at last, he smiled at her. “Mrs. Lewis is a tea thrower.”
“A what?”
“She upends people’s teacups after they’ve finished drinking, and then reads things from the pattern of the leaves. Something of the sort, anyway. I’ve heard from one or two acquaintances that the resultant predictions can be discomforting, so I’ve declined her offers to read mine. However, if you feel so disposed, I’m sure she’d be only too delighted.”
“Maybe.” Ellie smiled, then changed the subject. “You said you wished to tell me something important when we were alone?”
“Yes. It would not have been fair to regale you with it all while we were on the road, for the weather was alarming enough on its own, without my troubles to add to it.”
Ellie was dismayed. Alarming? Troubles? Just what was she about to learn?
He bade her sit down on the settle, then looked sadly at her pale, tired face. “Forgive me, my dear, for you’ve suffered enough of late, losing your parents and your home under such tragic circumstances, but there is no way I can shield you from things here. Ellie, for the last fourteen years I have been forced to seek refuge and anonymity.”
Ellie’s blue eyes widened. “Forced? By whom?”
“Well, originally, certain rather pressing debts that I was unable to pay. I gambled too deep by far at White’s, and lost so heavily to certain gentlemen that I could not hope to meet my debts. Rather than face jail, I decided to vanish. That was why I estranged myself from your mother. I could not bear the thought of her knowing the duns might descend upon me at any moment.”
Agitated by having to talk about things that cut through to his innermost secrets, he rose from the rocking chair and began to pace restlessly up and down the room.
“The only course I saw open to me was to turn my beloved hobby of china decoration into a living. So I took myself to the Crown Derby works to see if I could be taken on as an artist. Much to my relief they were glad to have me. Six years later I at last persuaded them to experiment with my own formula for what the French call pâte tendre, but we know as soft-paste porcelain. I know British china can match Sèvres and the others, if only the basic white china can be fine enough and translucent enough. Unfortunately for me, my formula is too delicate to be profitable, so Derby decided against any more experimentation.
“I moved on to the Royal Worcester works, to try my luck there instead. At first Derby didn’t know my whereabouts, but about eighteen months ago, when I’d been at Worcester for three years, they heard a whisper, and immediately wrote to Worcester, threatening legal action, saying I had no right to take my formula elsewhere because it belonged to them. I already had the duns to avoid; now I had my former employers on my back as well.
“Worcester had been experimenting with my recipe, but were fast coming to the same conclusion as Derby, that it was far too impractical. Some exquisitely delicate pieces had been produced, but the wastage was so heavy that they too chose not to proceed, so I upped sticks in the middle of the night and disappeared from there too.”
“To come here to Wales?”
His glance slid away. “Yes.”
Ellie had never been all that good at sums, but even she knew there were years unaccounted for. Her uncle claimed that fourteen years ago he severed contact with the rest of the family because of the gambling debts that ruined him. Then he’d been six years at Crown Derby and three at Royal Worcester. He’d been here at Nantgarth for two years, which left three years unaccounted for. “What were you doing for the rest of the time?” she asked.
“Rest of the time?”
She explained her reasoning.
He stopped pacing. “Ah. Oh, nothing in particular. This and that, you know how it is,” he answered, glancing at the portrait over the fireplace. “Anyway, no sooner had I departed from Worcester, than I met Lord Griffin, whom good fortune had seen fit to keep from crossing my path while I was enjoying my former high life in London. We were both snowbound at the same inn high on the Pennines, and thus thrust together for company. I found myself telling him all about my formula, although not, of course, about my debts. I must have convinced him of something, for he not only offered to advance me sufficient money to start up on my own, but suggested this site at a very reasonable ground rent. No man could have been more generous and understanding, but I fear that even his patience will be exhausted if I do not succeed soon.”
“But what is wrong with your china?” she asked.
“Wastage,” he answered promptly. “My formula is so delicate, you see, and with so much sand it always runs the danger of almost turning to glass. But when it works, oh, my dear, you will never have seen more exquisite china.”
He went to one of the shelves, and brought her a plate. “Hold it up to the fire, Eleanor. There, you see? The flames are visible through it. Not even Sèvres is so fine.”
She gazed at the plate, which was beautifully gilded and painted with wreaths of roses. “Oh, Uncle, it’s magnificent,” she breathed.
He nodded, pleased. “If only I could produce work of this quality every time, I would be made. But whatever I do, the formula is too delicate. Some say too faulty, of course, but I know it is right. All I need is to discover that final tweak that will work the magic.” He returned the plate to the shelf, then positioned himself in front of the fire and clasped his hands behind his back.
“I’m sure that Lord Griffin will keep faith with you, Uncle.”
“I hope so, Eleanor. Actually, I have reason to think he keeps my best interests at heart, for there has been excellent news from St. Petersburg.”
“St. Petersburg?” She looked blankly at him, wondering what the Russian capital had to do with it.
“Lord Griffin is there at the moment,” John explained. “He is visiting his sister, Mrs. Brasier, who resides there with her English fur trader husband, a man of great wealth, from all accounts. Anyway, it seems pleasure has been mixed with business, so to speak, because a hasty postscript to Lord Griffin’s last letter to his agent stated that Czar Alexander has expressed an interest in the Griffin stud. It is not known yet what will come of this, but Lord Griffin obviously hopes for a great deal as he issued instructions that no horse is to be sold from the stud until his return. This might not be before the spring, as I understand he has been badly struck with the grippe.”
Ellie’s picture of his lordship promptly extended to him being a sickly invalid as well.
“St. Petersburg is a poor place for the lungs,” John continued, “but then what can one expect when it is so far north and built upon a marsh? One might as well expect Venice to boast dry foundations.” He shook his head sadly at the folly of man, then added, “However, it cannot be coincidence that my good news from that capital coincides with Lord Griffin’s presence there.”
“What good news is that, Uncle?” Ellie asked.
“Suffice it that if all goes well, you may see St. Petersburg yourself in the not too distant future.”
“Really?” Her eyes lit up.
“I trust so.” John’s face became more serious. “Now to a rather awkward point. You asked me earlier why people here call me Mr. Bailey, not Mr. Billersley. Well, the truth of it is that when I found myself with Derby, Worcester, and the duns in pursuit, I knew it was time to properly cover my tracks. So when I reached that inn on the Pennines, I assumed a new identity, becoming John Bailey. That is why I must beg you to forget the name Billersley. It’s important, my dear, for a slip of the tongue migh
t see me in jail after all.”
She got up to fling her arms reassuringly around his neck. “I won’t let you down, Uncle,” she whispered.
He held her. “You’re a good girl, Eleanor, and you’ve suffered much. Your darling mother’s demise was a terrible thing, but at least she had been ill. Your father, on the other hand ... Such an unnecessary accident. It must have been a terrible ordeal for you.”
“It wasn’t an accident, Uncle,” she said quietly, and drew from his arms to tell him the truth about her father’s death. “The Unicorn Bank behaved monstrously throughout,” she finished, “not only stealing his money, but somehow getting away with it within the law. I don’t profess to understand the minutiae of such matters, but I do know that my father was innocent of wrongdoing.”
“Retribution will strike the guilty, you mark my words,” John assured her.
“I pray so.” She seemed to see Athan’s face, and had to make herself speak of something else. “Uncle, I would not have come here if I’d realized how much of a burden I would be,” she said awkwardly.
“Burden? You? No, never. Please, my dear, it will grieve me to think you feel that way. Promise now?”
“You definitely want me here?”
“You belong with me, Eleanor. We are kin and must help each other.”
At that moment the clock on the mantel commenced to tick again, a loud intrusion on the brief silence that had fallen between uncle and niece. Ellie smiled. “Gwilym?”
Her uncle nodded, and at that moment Mrs. Lewis tapped at the door. “Your meal is waiting, Mr. Bailey, Miss Rutherford.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Lewis,” he replied, then offered Ellie his arm. “Come, Eleanor, it may not be to a grand dining room that we go, but we may as well keep up appearances.”
She smiled. “There’s just one thing, Uncle.”
“Yes?”
“I loathe being called Eleanor. Will you please call me Ellie?”
“One change of name deserves another,” he said, raising her hand to his lips. “Come, Ellie, let’s to our banquet.”
* * *
Later that night, when Ellie and her uncle were asleep in their beds, Mrs. Lewis and her son sat facing each other at the kitchen table, a single candle burning low between them.
“It cannot be coincidence, Gwilym,” the housekeeper said in Welsh. “She is the living image, the very living image, and she has been sent in time, Gwilym. It is up to us, to you and me, to see that she triumphs.”
“And if she doesn’t want him?”
“Not want him?” Mrs. Lewis gave a low laugh. “My dear boy, of course she’ll want him. And he will want her. They already want each other.”
Gwilym frowned. “That cannot be.”
His mother spread her hands in puzzlement. “I know, Gwilym, and yet my heart tells me it is so. All we have to do is make certain that such things as honor and duty do not override true love.”
Gwilym put out a slender finger to press the soft wax at the lip of the candle. “What if you are wrong, Mam? What if it is the other one who should after all be at his side?”
“Should? How can that be so? Everyone else may be deceived, but you and I know how bad she really is, and her mother. We know what is right, and what must be done. We must interfere as best we can.”
Gwilym nodded, but then his face turned suddenly pale. “There are others....”
“What do you mean?”
“From the ice. A spotted hound.”
“Spotted hound?” Mrs. Lewis’s brows drew together. “Were you with the Mari Lwyd after all, Gwilym?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Maybe. I do not always know. I can be two.”
His mother nodded. “That is true. So it was your fetch she saw?”
“I cannot be sure.”
The candle flickered, the flame leapt, and for a moment it seemed that a freshly gathered posy of snowdrops lay on the table between them. But it was only for a moment.
Mrs. Lewis smiled again. “A good sign, Gwilym, a very good sign. He will choose the right bride.”
Chapter Seven
The following morning Ellie awakened and looked up at the beamed ceiling above her simple bed. Winter sunshine pierced the plain shutters of her south-facing bedroom window, and the chirruping of sparrows in the holly tree had taken the place of the overnight storm.
Mrs. Lewis, silent as a mouse, had crept in earlier to tend the tiny fireplace, where flames now flickered warmly, taking the edge off the cold. The walls were roughly plastered, and very white, and the furniture was as rustic as that in the rest of Nantgarth House. She could hear voices by the canal, and the clatter of hooves as a horse and cart was driven down toward Nantgarth and the turnpike.
The bedsheets smelled of lavender and were so crisp and white that they must have been boiled before being starched. A patchwork quilt topped the woolen blankets that had kept Ellie cozy from the moment her head touched the crochet-trimmed pillow.
Mrs. Lewis spoke outside the door. “Are you awake, Miss Rutherford?”
“Yes, Mrs. Lewis, please come in.” Ellie struggled to sit up, sweeping her hair back from her face and then stretching her arms above her head. She had slept like a log, and heaven alone knew what time it was now.
The housekeeper came in with a cup of tea, placed it carefully by the bed, and gazed at Ellie as if hoping the uncanny resemblance she had seen the night before would not be there in the cold light of day. But it was, and the woman drew back, whispering something beneath her breath.
Ellie smiled at her. “I really am your cousin’s double, am I?”
Mrs. Lewis became self-conscious. “Oh, pay no attention to me, miss. I do rattle on sometimes. I trust you slept well?”
“Indeed I did. The bed is very comfortable, and the linen so fresh that I know I will sleep like a top even when I’ve recovered from my journey.”
Mrs. Lewis was pleased, and as her eyes met Ellie’s, they both knew they would get on splendidly. It was a good moment, confirming first impressions of the night before.
“Mrs. Lewis, you’ll never know how glad I am that you speak such excellent English,” Ellie said then. “I mean to learn Welsh as much as I can, but right now it is quite unintelligible to me.”
The housekeeper laughed. “You will soon sort it out, I’m sure. I speak English, and so does Gwilym, because I worked and lived at Castle Griffin for a long time, and Lord Griffin always insists upon English being spoken.”
“But you left to come here?”
The woman smoothed her hands down her starched apron. “I was dismissed,” she said frankly.
“Whatever for?”
“Because I fell foul of Mrs. Tudor and her daughter.”
“Who are they?” Ellie inquired.
“Lord Griffin’s permanent guests, Miss Rutherford. Miss Tudor is soon to be officially betrothed to him.”
“Really? How old is she?”
“She might be a year or two your senior, Miss Rutherford.”
Ellie’s impression of Lord Griffin made her appalled to think of such a young woman becoming his wife. She would have liked to ask more, but there was such a wealth of loathing in the housekeeper’s voice that she decided not to. Instead she smiled. “Please call me Miss Ellie, for I would much prefer it.”
“Thank you, Miss Ellie, that is most kind of you. Now then, shall I open the shutters?”
“If you please.”
The woman went to the window, and a moment later the bright light of morning flooded the bedroom as it flooded the valley outside. There, rising above the thick trees on the heights above the pass and the conjunction of the two valleys, were the towers and battlements of Castle Griffin. The great Norman fortress was at once intimidating and beautiful, its grim martial aspect softened by glazed windows that shone in the sunlight, and gardens that spilled down through clearings.
Mrs. Lewis watched how she gazed at the castle. “Would you like to see into your tea leaves, Miss Ellie?” she offered.
Ellie was intrigued. “Yes, if you please.”
“Drink up then, and we will see what is there. All that is required is the cup, saucer, and your tea leaves. Just leave a mouthful of tea in the bottom, that’s all.”
Ellie drank the tea, all the while chiding herself for being a gullible goose; then she handed the cup and saucer to the waiting housekeeper.
“Mind now, miss, I will not see anything, but you will see your secret dreams.”
Ellie was puzzled. “But—”
“That is how it happens, miss. The tea leaves are turned, and by looking at them a person sees what he or she really dreams will happen. It is a window into the innermost soul.”
“I’ll see a ... a vision, you mean?” Ellie’s eyes grew large.
Mrs. Lewis nodded, “Yes, you and only you, my dear. I am but the means through which things are revealed. Do you still wish to proceed?”
“I ... I think so.”
“Very well.”
The housekeeper sat on the edge of the bed, then swirled the dregs in the teacup before suddenly turning it upside down in the saucer and looking at the pattern left in the cup. The leaves seemed to have mostly congregated near the lip. Her eyes began to close, and she sat there without moving.
Ellie regarded her uneasily, for the woman was suddenly as stiff and motionless as a statue. The sun must have gone behind a cloud outside, for the room had become darker—dark enough for a candle to have been lit. Someone else was present. Who was it? Ellie’s hand crept to her throat, and she was conscious of her heart thumping wildly in her breast. Where was her nightgown? She seemed to be naked! And where was she?
She looked around as the uncertain light fell on fine furniture, rich rugs, gilded plasterwork, and other costly things she knew were not in her room. There was a wonderful soup tureen on the mantel, its gilding and painted decoration clearly her uncle’s work. A soup tureen? Why? Surely a vase or an urn would be more appropriate?
