by Amelia Smith
“I remember it in better days,” Thomas said.
“You're not as old as that,” Mr. Owen rejoined.
“No?” Thomas said. “I'm certain it was quite well-kept when I was a boy. At least, better than it is now.”
Mr. Owen considered. “I suppose it might have been better then. I don't know. Wasn't here myself, but the folks in the village say it went into decline with the old Sir Pently, and it's never been right since.”
Thomas scarcely remembered his grandfather. He had married late and was an old man when Thomas was born. “You're right; I'm not as old as all that. It's something the people in the village wouldn't have told me themselves.”
“Why not?” Mr. Owen said.
Matt, the gardener, was trailing behind. “It's 'cause he's one of them,” he interjected. “No one much likes them in these parts.”
Thomas stopped to look at him. “It is my family. I left for ten years and had a few brushes with death in India, just to get away from them,” he said. “But if I'm to live here – at Lawton, I mean – I intend to do something for the place.”
“An admirable sentiment,” Mr. Owen said. The gardener looked skeptical.
There followed a moment of awkward silence. Mr. Owen regarded Thomas critically. They were closing ranks around their new mistress, as if there were some sort of unspoken agreement among the people of Lindley Hall, to keep themselves to themselves, and not to tolerate interlopers. Especially not interlopers from Lawton.
“So, would you show me the farm?” Thomas asked. He resisted the urge to look back towards the house. “Are these apple orchards, then, or cherries, or...”
Matt snorted. “You're not much of an Englishman if you don't know an apple tree when you see one,” he said.
“I suppose I'm not,” Thomas said. “But I'd better learn, hadn't I?”
#
Hyacinth fairly ran into the house. She shut the door and leaned against it to take a deep, steadying breath. Her pulse pounded at her temples. She knew that she could build a life here, a good life here, the one she'd meant to live, but it would be far, far easier if he didn't come calling, reminding her of moonlit decks and hands clasped at the rail, in the night, or of dizzying dances and diamonds. She took one more deep breath... and opened her eyes to find Mrs. Owen peering at her from the library door, just a short way up the hall.
“You're in love,” she said. “That complicates this matter of the school. I wish you'd told me.”
“It changes nothing,” Hyacinth said, trying to be resolute. Her voice shook, betraying her. “He has no intentions... I mean, not that he doesn't have intentions, it's only that I don't think we should. His family wouldn't like it. Nor would mine.”
“Dear,” Mrs. Owen said, drawing closer. “It doesn't matter what his family likes, or what your family likes, it's only what you and he would like. And even schoolmarms don't really want to be maidens all their lives. At least, I didn't.”
Hyacinth blinked back tears. “It's very kind of you to say so, but...”
Mrs. Owen placed her hand over Hyacinth's. She wasn't a very old woman, but she wasn't young, either. She was a motherly age, comforting, but not too distant.
“I know my family must have raged when I ran away with a fugitive from justice,” she said, “and I'm sure Mr. Owen's people would have torn their hair out to see him with a bluestocking like me, but we don't regret it, not for a moment.”
Hyacinth sniffed. “That's... I don't know,” she stammered. “Could you find Maria for me? I think we should put together some kind of luncheon for Sir Pently, and I don't have any idea where to begin.”
“Don't worry,” Mrs. Owen said. “I'll go speak to Sarah and find out what she has in the pantry, and Maria can help you dress. I always think that picnics are romantic, but it's chilly, now that the wind has picked up.”
Hyacinth nodded, grateful to talk about something other than her illusory courtship. “This morning, Matt said we might have snow.”
Mrs. Owen chuckled. “Yes, we might have snow. What about the yellow parlor? The room warms quickly, and yellow suits you. I'll see to the fire, and Sarah can send up tea and sandwiches, or whatever she has planned for your luncheon. Don't mind about the school. Love is...”
“I'm not giving up on the school, I'm not.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Owen said. “Why don't you wait in the library?”
“Yes, I think I will,” Hyacinth said. “Or do you think I should go get dressed?”
“Of course, dear.” Mrs. Owen winked merrily and strode off in the direction of the kitchen. Hyacinth collected herself and went upstairs.
Half an hour later, she sat in the yellow parlor, perched on the edge of a mustard-colored settee in a pale violet gown which Maria had packed for her, even though it was much too fine for travel and one of the ones that Aunt Celia had bought for her in London. She heard them coming up the path before she saw them. Someone chuckled. Could it be Matt? He'd seemed quite hostile to Thomas when they set out.
The front door opened and she jumped to her feet, hurrying to meet the men in the hall.
“Do come in!” she said.
Thomas glanced around. Through his eyes, the house couldn't be very impressive, Hyacinth thought. Mr. Owen and Matt stood behind him. Mr. Owen coughed.
“I'm sorry,” Hyacinth said, “you must come in, too.”
“Not at all,” said Mr. Owen. “I'll have my lunch at my own house.”
“And I was just going to the kitchens, to see Molly,” Matt said. With that, they hurried off, leaving Hyacinth and Thomas alone together, standing in the cool, dark hallway with its polished floors and dark drapes. The house seemed utterly silent. Hyacinth bit her lip.
“I've missed you,” Thomas said.
“I've been very busy,” Hyacinth said.
“Yes, I can see that. You've been settling in?”
“I have. Come, let's go into the parlor,” Hyacinth said. She turned back down the corridor and led him to the yellow parlor. It was a pretty room, very feminine. She felt her grandmother's presence rather strongly there. Molly, one of the maids, said that Mrs. Miller had always taken her tea there. Also, a portrait of her in her later years hung over the mantel.
Thomas followed her in. “Was that your grandmother?” he asked. In the portrait, Hyacinth's grandmother wore silks and fur, and looked far more commanding than she had in portraits of her younger self.
Hyacinth nodded. “She commissioned that one herself. There are other portraits, but they belonged to her patrons.”
“And you don't think much of her patrons?”
“No, not really.”
Thomas circled the room and came to rest beside a chair. Hyacinth took one nearby, and they both sat, just a bit too far away from each other to touch.
“I wish I'd known her,” Hyacinth said, “but I don't want to live like she did.”
“I know. You've told me. You want to be independent.”
Hyacinth nodded, avoiding looking at him.
“I couldn't be independent if I wanted to, not any more,” Thomas said.
“No? Isn't having your own estate a kind of independence?” she asked.
“Maybe some day, but not until I get the estate back on its feet,” he said. “And besides, it properly belongs to my mother – it's her title, you know.”
“Is it?” Hyacinth said. “I didn't know that.”
“No,” Thomas said. “I think my father did everything he could to try to make her forget it, but it's too late for his regrets now. I don't think he'll live to see her again. It's a lonely place.”
Hyacinth looked at him warily. He had that same lost look he'd had that night, on the Whistler. She reached for his hand, sitting on the edge of her chair, leaning towards him.
He looked up at her and closed his fingers around hers. Their eyes met, and he seemed about to say something, then leaned closer, his face almost touching hers.
There was a knock at the door. They sprang apart.
“Yes?” Hyacinth said.
Molly, the maid, entered. “It's the post, Miss,” she said. “You've a letter from London.” She walked briskly to Hyacinth's side, handed her the letter, and turned to go.
“Wait,” Thomas said.
She ignored him. She kept her hair tucked into her cap, and there was never so much as a strand out of place, but when she reached the door, she turned a little, showing the side of her face. High cheekbones, and a frown.
“You look like Father,” Thomas said. She paused. “I think you're my sister. Half sister. I'm sorry, I didn't realize it, that day in the woods.”
“You left after that,” Molly said. “We heard. Why?”
Thomas shrugged. “I thought you were his mistress. It's what any young man would think. But I suppose your mother was?”
Molly nodded. “She was, until... I don't know; maybe she still is.” She closed the door to the hall, keeping her back to it. Now it was Hyacinth she ignored.
“She kept with him for years, even after the money ran out. Still keeps his accounts open at the tavern.”
“She works at the tavern?”
“Always had to,” Molly said. “Thanks to him.”
“Is it Mary, there?”
Molly nodded.
“I met her when I came through, on my way home a few days ago. I'll settle the account there, just as soon as my funds get here from London.”
“That's what he always said. Or when he won his next hand.”
“Look,” Thomas said. “I can't go back and... I'm not him, but I can pay the bills, and I will, and all the back wages. I didn't want to be anything like him. That's why I left.”
“Should have stayed gone, then, and not come around here, either,” Molly said. “If you'll excuse me?” She swept out of the room.
Thomas stood to follow her. “Hyacinth,” he said, “I have to... I have to talk to my sister. I don't know her. What's her name?”
“It's Molly,” Hyacinth said. “Her name is Molly. Go.”
“I'll be right back,” he said.
Hyacinth, feeling completely disoriented, set the letter on the table and walked over to the window. Thomas and Molly were outside, talking animatedly, arguing. They were nearly the same height, and her eyes matched his. She even had a shadow of that aristocratic nose. Molly didn't treat Thomas like the lord of the manor. She treated him like a man she'd had a grudge against all her life. She kept shaking her head. Thomas kept holding his hand out to her. Finally, after a few muffled exchanges, she shook it, and they walked together to the stables. Hyacinth brought her letter over to the window. The cook came in with tea and sandwiches, setting them down and leaving without a word.
Outside, a few snowflakes drifted down. Thomas re-appeared, leading Polaris. Polaris with Molly riding him, looking dazed yet pleased with herself. Thomas spoke to the horse, and patted him on the neck, then bowed ever so slightly. He sent Molly, the maid, on her way atop his prized horse.
Hyacinth glanced down at the letter at last. It was from Georgiana – she'd been expecting one from Aunt Celia, but nothing had arrived yet. She was just opening it when Thomas came back in. She half-rose to greet him, but he flopped down on the settee across from her.
“Father's dying. I thought she should see him, to say goodbye, or good riddance. She probably knew him better than I did.” Thomas said. “I don't know why I came back here. Not here, to Lindley Hall, but to Lawton.”
“Family obligation?” Hyacinth offered.
Thomas shook his head. “There's that, but mostly, I think it's that I failed so much in India.”
“But you didn't,” Hyacinth said. “You said you built a fortune.”
“That's not what I mean,” he said. “I mean... it was Sarita. I should have tried harder, tried to marry her. I don't think I'll ever have a mistress again. It's... Father didn't even pay his tavern bill, and yet Molly's mother was his mistress for years, along with who knows how many others. Including the cook at Lawton, I think, at least when she was younger. I don't want to be like that.”
“But you weren't, not like that. You were loyal to your mistress, I think?” Hyacinth said.
“For a time, but... I have already forgotten so many little things about her, and now I don't think it would have lasted forever, not as we had it, not with the company closing ranks against the natives. I wouldn't have had the strength to stand up to it. I saw that, and whatever they might have said, I wasn't the first officer to duel. I could have stayed, but I needed to escape again. I'd failed, and my father's shadow was chasing me.”
Hyacinth wanted to comfort him, but she knew nothing, didn't know where to begin. Outside, the snowflakes thickened in the air.
“I got a letter from your cousin,” she offered.
“From Georgiana?” he said, brightening. “Do read it. She writes excellent letters, sometimes.”
Hyacinth broke the seal and unfolded it. “This one is very short, I'm afraid.”
Dear Friend,
I've engaged a Bow Street runner, recommended as one of the best of his profession. He has turned up nothing so far, but it has only been two days, and I hope to have better news to report soon. My cousin has set out for Lawton, so you may see him before I do again.
The Baroness has declared that I am to go visiting with her, immediately, so I must go, but I will write you again as soon as I have any news from the runner, or from my own enquiries.
Yours,
Georgiana
Thomas stared at the ceiling as she read, then blinked. “A Bow Street runner?” he said. “Why on earth have you and Georgiana hired a runner?”
#
Chapter 17: Declarations
“Have some tea,” Hyacinth said. As she poured, he took one of the sandwiches from the tray that had appeared while he was outside arguing with his half sister. He had not thought of her much, since that day, but as soon as he'd seen her, he'd known who she was. She also appeared to be the only person at Lindley Hall with any connection to the local area.
Hyacinth sat across from him and took a sip of her own tea. “It's rather a common story,” she said. “My necklace was stolen by a highwayman on our first day out of London. I was hoping that Georgiana would know if it might be possible to retrieve it.”
“Probably not,” Thomas said absently. “There are thousands of necklaces in England, and probably half of them have been stolen at some time or another.”
“I know, but I have to try, and I wouldn't know where to begin. It must have been very valuable.”
“It's only a...” Thomas suddenly remembered Hyacinth at the ball, with that impossibly large jewel resting on her breasts. “The one that you wore at the ball?”
Hyacinth nodded.
He cursed himself. “How? You must have reported it. Surely the local magistrate could have sent word to London?”
Hyacinth shook her head. “I told him I thought it was priceless. He said that it was probably paste and wrote down its value as something like twenty pounds.”
“Twenty pounds?” Thomas's voice rose. “He's a fool.”
“He hadn't seen it,” Hyaicnth said.
“Do you have any idea how valuable that necklace is?” Thomas remembered half the ballroom watching it out of the corners of their eyes, with that loathsome man, Frank Churchill, coveting it, bald-faced. “Damn it!” Thomas jumped to his feet. “I must go. Georgiana can't manage this on her own.”
Hyacinth looked puzzled. “You can't go to London. Your father is dying.”
“I came this far. I can go to London,” Thomas said. She looked strangely untroubled by the theft. “How can you just forget it?”
“I had no way of chasing after it,” she said. “Besides, there was something about the highwayman – I thought he might be looking for me, for the necklace, in particular, and surely coming here, beginning my own life –”
“You say he was looking for you in particular?” Thomas demanded, his pulse racing. “Why? How?”
“It was just a feeling,” she whispered. “The way he kept his eye on my reticule. I don't know. I had felt that there was someone following us. It frightened me. And then, when he came in with his pistol, I just... I just knew that was it, what I'd been dreading. After he left, after he stole the jewel, I didn't have that sense anymore. I felt safer. Oh, I know I should have left it in London, but we were all alive and he hadn't hurt anyone, and everyone said I should be glad he didn't... you know... take me.”
Thomas knelt down and embraced her. “Yes. I'm glad, too. I should wish I had been there. I would have stopped him.” She shook her head, and fumbled in her skirts until she found her handkerchief.
“I was frightened. I didn't tell anyone. I haven't told anyone. It's just that mostly I feel I should have kept it, kept better watch over it. It's only an ornament, but –”
“Shh,” Thomas said, stroking her hair. “Don't say that. It's true, but it's not only an ornament. It was very important to someone, once, and it's extremely valuable, extremely valuable. Worth as much as this estate five times over, I'd say.”
“Not to me,” Hyacinth said, swallowing.
“Yes, but to the man who... Damn it!” Thomas looked up. “Damn it,” he repeated. “Tell me about that highwayman. How tall was he? What did he wear?”
“Why?” Hyacinth asked.
“Just tell me.” He got up, and paced the room as she talked, holding one of the sandwiches in his hand, half forgotten.
“He was small, not very small, but much shorter than you. His hand shook a little. And he was wearing a cotton coat, which I thought rather odd.”
“And what did he say? Why do you think he was looking for you, again?”
“It was just the way he seemed to lose interest as soon as he saw the bag with the necklace in it. He didn't even look inside, though he must have felt its weight. He'd started at the other side of the carriage, demanding the contents of pockets and reticules, and went all the way around until he got to me. Maria was next, but he just left as soon as he'd passed me, without even stopping to demand the contents of her purse.”
Thomas frowned. “I must go to London.”
