by Jo Beverley
“Feelingly,” said David with a pained expression. “My father believed I was too old to beat but after the tongue-lashing he gave me I’d rather have had the whipping. He seemed to feel I was leading the younger ones astray. And after you had escaped from your tutor and ridden over with the wonderful idea. There’s no justice.”
“Well,” said Randal, the picture of innocence. “It was taking Sophie along that really tore it.”
“Are you seriously suggesting that was my idea?” protested David. “What brother has ever desired the company of his little sister?” He accompanied this by a teasing wink at Sophie and settled beside his wife to take a cup of tea.
Randal strolled over to Sophie, warmly smiling. He raised her hand and kissed it just by the diamond ring he had given her. “She cried so prettily to be taken along,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Irresistible.”
“I found her resistible,” said David firmly. “Tangled hair and a snotty nose. Woe to you if you’re going to let her bear-lead you all your life with tears. And she ended up with a black eye, which was what incensed my revered father so.”
“I remember,” said Sophie. “I ran into a tree.”
Beth could see Sophie blossoming under Randal’s lighthearted attentions and her concerns about the pair began to fade.
“Why don’t we go to the fair?” asked Sophie eagerly. “It would be such fun.”
“Yokels and strong ale?” queried the Marquess of Chelmly dismissively. “I don’t think you’d enjoy it now you’re more than five, Sophie.”
“Randal and David enjoyed it at much past five,” Sophie retorted. She looked around for support and fastened on Piers Verderan, lounging in a chair rather apart from the rest. “Would you like to go to the fair, Ver?”
He looked at her and seemed to read her mind. “I always hold that a touch of squalor makes us appreciate our good fortune,” he drawled.
“Is that your excuse?” queried Marius drily. Beth stiffened. The antagonism between the two could be felt. Over her? It was impossible surely that these two men could be bristling like hounds over little Beth Hawley.
“I never need an excuse,” replied Mr. Verderan. “It’s so boringly bourgeois to be forever justifying one’s actions.”
Before Sir Marius could respond, Mr. Verderan got support from an unexpected quarter. “Damn me if you ain’t right,” barked the Duke of Tyne.
“Good,” said Randal, seemingly oblivious to ill feeling. “Then, if we need no excuse for enjoying proletarian pleasures, I vote for the fair. I never did catch the greasy pig, after all.”
Sophie clapped her hands and her brother Frederick let out a whoop.
“You can’t be serious, Randal,” said Chelmly, and Sophie scowled at him dreadfully.
“If I can’t be serious,” said Lord Randal blithely, “then I won’t be. I think I’ll pass on the greasy pig, but I’ll break pots for trinkets.”
He turned to Sophie with a decidedly mischievous twinkle and turned her so her back was to him. He undid the chain around her neck and drew away the pearl and diamond pendant she wore. “Sophie can’t be going around in costly stuff like this,” he said, slipping it into his pocket. “It will quite turn her head. Pinchbeck and glass is what she needs if she’s to be a frugal housewife.”
Sophie turned around and put her hands on her hips. “Indeed!” She moved her left hand and studied the magnificent marquise diamond. “Yes, I see it’s a worthless bauble.”
“What else?” he agreed. “I’m an impoverished younger son.” He took her hand and turned it. The precious stone flashed fire from the candles but he appeared unimpressed. “But I could have done better than this, all the same.” He kissed her hand again. “I shall win you a better, sweeting. Something with more color.”
“Oh, good,” said Sophie, her eyes nearly as bright as the diamond at this delightful nonsense. “I haven’t liked to complain, my dear—I’m sure you were pressed for the ready at the time—but something yellow, perhaps, or red, would be nice. And much, much larger. I can hardly hold my head up in company with this paltry thing.”
Beth saw the two lovers lose themselves for a moment as the world disappeared for them and they gazed into each other’s eyes. Then Randal recollected himself and drew Sophie back into the center of the room.
“Dare I hope they have pistol shooting at this fair of yours?” asked Verderan.
“Of course not,” Randal replied. “Strictly stones thrown at chipped pots.”
“I’ll need to practice then,” said the Dark Angel, with a deliberately wicked look at a display of Middle Eastern pottery in one corner. Beth gasped and Sophie gave a nervous giggle. David got speedily to his feet and stood in front of his valuable collection, but his lips were twitching.
“Some of them are chipped,” said Verderan innocently. “Lady Wraybourne, I appeal to you. Do you not have some common pieces we can hurl stones at?”
“Now?” asked Jane blankly.
“Come on, Jane,” said Sophie. “I’m sure the kitchen must be full of stuff they’d be glad to see the back of.”
Beth saw Jane flash a look at her husband, but he must have given his approval for she began to enter into the spirit. “But you’re not breaking pots in here, or anywhere in the house for that matter. In the garden, I think. Nor am I asking the servants to do extra work this time of night. You,” she said, pointing at Verderan, “and you,” she pointed at Randal, “can come with me and carry.”
The party divided in two at this point. The duke, the duchess, the marquess, and the Stanforths decided to return to the Towers and the earl went to see them on their way. The rest, caught in an adventurous spirit, invaded the kitchen in search of pots.
It was perhaps fortunate that the Stenby staff had a parlor to sit in so that the arrival of the ladies and gentlemen in the kitchen did not throw anyone into hysterics. Mrs. Jolley, the cook, soon arrived to protect her preserve but Sophie’s words proved true. She remembered a box in the back of one of the storerooms where her predecessor had put discarded pottery twenty years before. There were bowls and jugs with tiny chips or cracked glazing, and pieces of pottery with awkward handles or dribbling spouts.
“Never could bear to throw a thing out, she couldn’t,” the woman remarked. She turned with a frown. “Now, now, Master Randal,” she said to that gentleman, who was exploring with fascination the line of earthenware pots on a sideboard. “Keep your fingers to yourself, if you please.”
He stopped with the look of an angelic child caught in a rare moment of naughtiness.
Obviously, that was the impression Mrs. Jolley received, for she clucked slightly and lifted down a large crock. She opened it to reveal crisp, golden Shrewsbury biscuits. The ladies and gentlemen, despite having had a perfectly adequate dinner, fell upon them as if starving. The cook shared an indulgent look with Beth, who had not joined in the business. Then she turned to the others.
“Many’s the time you young ones have come here looking for my Shrewsbury biscuits,” Mrs. Jolley said. “Now don’t you eat them all, though, or there’ll be none for tea tomorrow.”
It was in a spirit of hilarity that the party made its way to the graveled driveway, arms full of pots and many a pocket full of biscuits. Even the staid Reverend Mortimer strolled beside Beth, fondly remembering kitchen raids of his youth. Lord Wraybourne caught up with them, stole some biscuits from his sister, and took Marius on a side trip to the kitchen garden to gather stones.
Frederick and Mortimer volunteered to fetch two chairs and a board on which to stand the pots. Jane requested Verderan’s and Beth’s assistance in investigating the ancient box of discards. Beth looked back for a moment at Randal and Sophie, who were left standing alone in the moonlight. Ah well, they’d be better for a little privacy.
“No work for us,” said Randal lightly. “Perhaps we should stay almost-married for the rest of our lives.”
“No, thank you,” said Sophie sharply.
“No,” he said s
oftly. “Not a terribly good idea. ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then‘twere well it were done quickly.’” He turned her head with a finger on her chin and lowered his lips softly to hers. Those lips and that finger were the only point of contact and yet Sophie’s head began to swim. She kept her eyes open and thought she saw an expression of pain in his.
She drew back resolutely. “Do you wish it were not to be done?” she asked.
“What?”
“That quotation. Macbeth doesn’t really want to kill the king.”
“Very wise,” he said flippantly. “Look what happened when he did—ghosts and witches and walking woods.” He moved to join Jane, Beth, and Verderan.
Sophie grabbed desperately at his sleeve. “Were you saying you don’t want to marry me?” she asked.
He looked at her with humorous amazement and peeled her fingers off the cloth. “Don’t be silly, Sophie. Serves me right for quoting Shakespeare. If there was any sense to it, surely, it was that I wish we had been married months ago. And that,” he added, with an indulgent touch of her chin, “is certainly true.”
By then the others had returned and he moved away to help set up the board and place items upon it. Then they cheerfully, ladies as well as gentlemen, hurled stones at the pots to shatter them.
Sophie did remarkably well but Beth wasn’t really surprised as she appeared to be taking out some bitter feelings on those pots. What had occurred between her and Randal? Beth had noticed that brief kiss and hoped it augured well. Judging from the anger Sophie was directing at the pottery it was not so.
Sophie was about to hurl a final stone at a singularly dull and ugly urn with a large chunk out of the rim when Lord Wraybourne’s shout stopped her.
He ran over and picked the pot up with reverence. “For God’s sake. It’s the Rakka Pot. It’s been missing for years.” He rubbed away some of the dirt and cobwebs, and they could see the raised design on the clay. “This is priceless!” He looked sharply at Verderan. “Surely you must have seen this was not kitchenware?”
The Dark Angel was the picture of innocence. “I’m no authority on such matters,” he said.
The earl made no further comment but Beth saw the expression in Verderan’s eyes.
“He knew,” she said softly to herself. “He just left the matter in the hands of fate.”
Sophie heard. “Is that the way, then?” she asked.
Beth could tell it was not an idle question and had no notion of how to answer. “Some say we cannot change our fate, Lady Sophie, no matter how we try.”
“But can we be sure,” asked Sophie, “that someone will come between us and shattering disaster?”
She walked away slowly and Beth had no idea what that short exchange had been about.
4
BETH AROSE the next morning to a quiet household. Only Jane and her husband, Sophie, Beth, Captain Frederick, and Sir Marius remained. Soon after breakfast Lord Wraybourne took Sir Marius and Frederick off on some manly pursuit, leaving the ladies to handle the household.
“There is, I’m afraid,” said Jane, “still rather a lot to do. Despite the fact that the staff here is excellent, the Castle has lacked a woman’s touch. We’re expecting the whole clan—all David’s aunts and uncles and not a few of the cousins as well as many friends. The staff can take care of cleaning all the bedchambers we will need, but I’d like to ask you and Sophie to check the linen and fixtures to make sure everything is as it should be. And Sophie, perhaps you can consider who would be suited by some of the less usual quarters.”
Beth agreed to this willingly enough, though Sophie could not be said to be enthusiastic. She did agree to guide Beth around the huge place, however, and soon became more animated as she related stories of the Castle.
“This is called the Nun’s Walk,” she said with relish as they climbed a short staircase to find another unpredictable passageway. Beth decided it would be very easy to get lost in Stenby. “I think we will put my cousin Maria Harroving and her brood in here. She deserves to meet the tortured nun.”
“The tortured nun!”
“Yes. One of my ancestors—oh, I don’t know how many greats ago, turned Catholic. Under Elizabeth, would you believe? Well, actually, I think she converted under Mary and then stuck with it, foolish woman. The second earl, her brother, handed her to the authorities for attending Mass, and she was crushed to death because she wouldn’t make a plea. She’s said to walk here, dripping blood.”
“Lady Sophie, are you teasing me?”
“No, honestly,” said Sophie. “My aunt Elizabeth claims to have seen her and she’s the most down-to-earth person. She’s married to the Bishop of Winchester and certainly has no sympathy for popish martyrs. There’re lots of tales of knights in armor walking over near the Great Hall too.”
Beth had to admit that if any house was likely to have specters, it was Stenby, with its quaint corridors, its thick and ancient walls. “Well,” she said briskly, “ghosts or not someone will have to sleep in this part and it may as well be the Harrovings as anyone. Let us see what state the rooms are in.”
As Jane had said, they were freshly cleaned, but the servants had paid little heed to the finer points. One bedchamber, for example, had no chairs at all. Beth made a note on the tablet she carried.
“They must have been moved elsewhere,” said Sophie, peering idly into a wardrobe. “I don’t think anyone has slept in the Nun’s Walk since David’s christening. The king came to that, you know.”
“It’s to be hoped he wasn’t put in here,” said Beth drily, “or the Kyles can hold themselves responsible for his mental instability.”
“Oh no. He had the Royal Suite. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Before Beth could protest, she had sped away and Beth felt she might as well follow. Up and down staircases and along a myriad of passageways they came to heavy, ancient oak doors which Sophie flung open. “It’s not called the Royal Suite because of Farmer George,” she said. “I think Henry VIII was the first to use it and most of the others have at one time or another. It was refurbished for David’s christening, but keeping the sixteenth-century style.”
The Royal Suite, in one of the oldest parts of the Castle, was magnificent. The walls were hung with blue silk damask embroidered with gold crowns. The same design was used in the fringed hangings over a huge bed and in the covers of the heavy oak chairs and benches. There was a dressing room with a curtained bathtub, and two anterooms where attendants could wait and sleep. There was also the King’s Gallery, a long narrow saloon with a massive fireplace and tall windows giving a view of the lawns.
“Who on earth gets to sleep in here?” asked Beth. “Or is the regent invited?”
“Well, he is, actually. One has to, you know. But he is unable to attend, thank goodness. He doesn’t much like coming north. Brummell is coming, though,” she said with a grin. “Perhaps he would like all this, especially as no one but a monarch is supposed to sleep in the great bed.” She went to flop on it. “I can’t say it’s very comfortable. This mattress feels like the original.”
It soon became clear to Beth that Sophie was unwilling or unable to put her mind to organized employment and was much more of a hindrance than a help. With a flash of inspiration, she sent the girl off to discover the condition of the invalid and see to her comfort. Sophie happily agreed, obviously finding something appealing in the mystery. With a sigh of relief, Beth went off to find some member of the staff to guide her.
Easier said than done. When another staircase she had thought familiar brought her to another strange passageway, she stopped and uttered a very unladylike, “Oh drat!”
She heard a chuckle behind her. “My dear lady,” said Sir Marius. “Could it be that you are lost?”
Why on earth did she have to blush? she wondered as she turned. “That is correct, Sir Marius. May I hope that you will guide me?”
He strolled forward. Casual country buckskins suited him, she realized, and in this solid, old buildi
ng, his scale seemed somehow right. He would have done very well as a knight in armor.
“Could I refuse a damsel in distress?” he asked. “Where is it that you wish to go?”
“I don’t know ...” she said accurately, then realized that it sounded very silly.
“In that case,” he said with a grin, “I suggest we sit and consider the problem.”
“I merely meant that I don’t know the names of all the rooms, Sir Marius,” she informed him. “Everything here has a special name—the Large and Small Crimson Chambers, the Knight’s Hall, the Great Hall, the Nun’s Walk ...”
“You want to go to the Nun’s Walk, Mrs. Hawley? I wouldn’t have supposed you to have a taste for the macabre.”
“Of course I don’t,” she snapped, wondering why conversations with this giant always seemed to spin out of control.
He came over to her, took her hand, and gently led her to the window seat. To her surprise, she went. He sat down beside her. “Now, let us talk calmly and find out what it is you have in mind.”
“I am perfectly calm, Sir Marius,” she said with some heat, snatching her hand out of his.
His lips twitched. “Just like when you challenged Verderan to a duel?”
Beth knew she was bright pink. “I do not care to be reminded ... And I did not,” she said, meeting his eyes. They were, she discovered to her surprise, rather fine. “I threatened to shoot him in cold blood.”
“And called him a stupid boy.”
“Which he is.”
“No,” he said seriously and took her hand again. “A word of advice, Mrs. Hawley. He is unpredictable. Last night, for some reason he took your words well. Don’t presume on that. He is a very dangerous man and I would not like to see you hurt.”
“Even the infamous Dark Angel wouldn’t assault a lady,” she protested.
He shook his head. “There is nothing he would not do if it pleased him at the time, and when his temper is roused he is likely to do things that don’t please him at all. In actual fact I like the man, but I tread very warily near him and I would suggest you do the same. If you cannot avoid him entirely.”
