by Jane Goodger
“You’re late for breakfast this morning,” Mr. Standard said, then shot a look at Mrs. Ellesbury so that Nathaniel would know he was giving him a lecture only for the cook’s sake. “Don’t let it become a habit. Mrs. Ellesbury works hard enough and this is not a restaurant where you may stroll in any time you’d like.”
“My apologies, Mrs. Ellesbury,” Nathaniel said, trying to ignore Mr. Standard’s reddening cheeks. Chastising him did not come naturally to the young butler, but was a necessity given Nathaniel’s predicament. If anything, he was grateful for Mr. Standard’s guidance in these matters, because he was completely ignorant about servant etiquette.
“Oh, don’t you fret, Mr. Emory.” Then she winked and said, “But perhaps you should pay more attention to the time.”
Nathaniel had been purposely late, an attempt to avoid the staff, particularly the female members. He could not honestly say he did not like the attention they gave him; it was rather uplifting to find himself the object of their adoration. Why not have a bit of fun while was here? As long as it did not move into the physical, a bit of flirtation would be harmless enough. But one girl, Sara, seemed to have moved from friendly flirtation to something more fervent, though he’d really done little to encourage her. He’d look up at odd times and there she would be, preening, batting her eyes, giggling. Someone ought to tell the girl that such behavior did not work on men—most men, rather. He’d waited until he was sure the other servants had departed the kitchen before making his way there, guessing Mrs. Ellesbury would still give him a hearty breakfast, and he’d been correct.
“How goes the garden?” Mr. Standard said, drawing Nathaniel’s attention back to the butler.
“Well enough. I think in a few weeks it will be near to complete. I hope.” The butler smiled, understanding that Nathaniel was talking more about his becoming butler to Lion’s Gate than about the garden itself.
“And you have everything you need? Equipment and such?”
Nathaniel thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes. For now. I may need something more when we begin preparing for the hothouse, but I’ll know better after I begin. Miss Anderson mentioned a local man would be building it?”
“That would be Mr. Billings. He does most of the odd building around these parts.” Mr. Standard gave a furtive look to Mrs. Ellesbury and, noting she was busy, leaned forward and whispered, “Is there anything else you need? Something to make your time here more pleasant? I know your room is mean and not at all—”
Nathaniel held up a hand. Mr. Standard’s earnestness was heartening, and Nathaniel gave him a grateful smile. “A prayer, sir, that I will finish my work here in a timely manner. That’s all I need.”
The butler smiled. “Oh, I nearly forgot. A letter arrived for you yesterday.” He seemed mortified to have forgotten. “One moment.”
Mr. Standard disappeared, leaving Nathaniel to finish his breakfast, and returned just as he was taking his last bite.
“It’s from London,” Mr. Standard said, the same way someone might say, “It’s from the queen.”
A quick glance told Nathaniel it was from his solicitor, and he tucked the letter into his pocket, much to the obvious disappointment of Mr. Standard, who had clearly wanted him to open it in front of him. “Thank you, Mr. Standard,” he said, then got up and left the kitchen to start his day.
Back in his quarters, Nathaniel withdrew the letter. He was quite curious what could have been so important that Gordon had seen fit to send him correspondence. He’d been quite clear with his solicitor that his identity needed to remain a secret and that correspondence from a solicitor would only arouse suspicion.
“Dear Mr. Emory,
I have learned that a Mr. Belmont has been inquiring about a certain item that his father lost. I thought you should know that your name and that of your grandfather were mentioned more than once. He is looking for you, sir. Be aware.
Kindest regards,
Samuel Gordon, esq.”
“Be aware?” Nathaniel said, as he read the cryptic note again. So, Belmont’s son was looking for the blue diamond. Why, after all this time? It would have been easy enough for the man to find his grandfather when he was still alive—unless the son was just now learning of the diamond. Nathaniel thought back on what his grandfather had told him about Belmont. His old friend had died decades ago and no one from that family had made any inquiries. It was possible they didn’t know of the diamond; he hadn’t known until his grandfather had told him, after all. How was it possible after all these years that a Belmont was now searching for the same diamond?
Gordon had written “Be aware” not “Beware,” so perhaps it was nothing to worry over. Nathaniel tucked the letter into his traveling bag, wondering what this could mean. Did Belmont think he had a claim to the diamond? Was it possible that he did? If what his grandfather said was true, then it was plausible that Belmont did have some sort of claim on the diamond, but he’d be damned if the family got a penny from it. His grandfather had suffered for years, unable to walk, his days filled with endless pain, all because of a Belmont. No, they wouldn’t get a sixpence of the money—if he ever found the blasted thing.
Chapter 5
“Checking out today, Mr. King?”
Roger gave the desk clerk a quick nod and handed over his room key. Another wasted day. Another false clue. If it weren’t for the large sum of money he was making daily, Roger would have given up his search quite some time ago. Mr. Belmont had walked into his office more than a month ago and Roger still had little to show for his time, most of which had been spent traveling. Payment had been suspended—this had been Roger’s decision—until which time he was able to secure more solid information. It didn’t help that when he’d traveled to Cumbria to visit the current Lord Alford, he’d found nothing but an abandoned and dilapidated estate.
The story of the two old friends was fascinating and clearly documented in journals left behind by the deceased Mr. Belmont, third son of Viscount Heresford. He’d gone off to South America and found a massive blue diamond, which he’d estimated would be worth a fortune once cut up into smaller diamonds. But his scoundrel friend had absconded with the diamond, leaving Mr. Belmont quite alone and nearly penniless in a foreign country. Desperate to return home, he’d signed on as crew to a British merchant ship and suffered unspeakable torture at the hands of the quarter master, a sick, cruel man who meted out punishment for his own twisted pleasure. Though his letters were not specific on this point, it was clear Mr. Belmont had been terribly abused while serving on the ship. I was young and pretty and paid the price. Chilling words. He blamed his friend, the man who had betrayed him, Lord Alford.
Indeed, from his letters, Mr. Belmont had appeared quite madly obsessed and Roger could hardly blame the man. Stealing that diamond had been the despicable act of a greedy, heartless soul. After reading the journals and being paid three hundred pounds to find the diamond, Roger had been more than willing to work for no fee for at least a month, maybe more. He was becoming nearly as obsessed with finding the diamond as Mr. Belmont had been.
Best of all, he’d found another daisy. While traveling to Cumbria, he’d stopped at an inn, and as he did in every village and city he’d ever been in, he’d begun asking questions related to his family’s murder. This time, he’d struck gold. Fifteen years prior, a woman had been brutally murdered in her home and a daisy had been carefully laid upon her body. Her twelve-year-old son had found her. His twin ran to get their father to help, but it was far too late for the poor lady, whose throat had been efficiently cut. When he’d heard the gruesome details, his heart had nearly stopped. It was far too coincidental, the details of this murder that had taken place hundreds of miles from London. A woman, a daisy, and twins.
Alas, this was another unsolved murder. The local constable had determined that it was some sort of attempted robbery, that the woman had perhaps interrupted a burglar and
had paid the price with her life. Before leaving that tiny village, Roger sought out the constable and told him of his family’s murder.
“This is the third case I’ve discovered involving twins and daisies,” he’d said.
The man’s face had paled markedly. That particular case had hit him hard, for the constable was the father of twins himself, and he could not imagine his own sons finding their mother thus. Now, he had another reason to fear. Two cases might be a coincidence. Three meant there was a monster in England, one that must be stopped.
If only Roger could find the bloody diamond, he could spend all his time searching for his family’s murderer. He had a feeling that finding the current Baron Alford would lead him directly to the diamond, so for now, his search had turned from the diamond to Nathaniel Emory. He had a feeling if he found the baron, he would be significantly closer to finding the diamond.
Chapter 6
Clara looked out their carriage window, bored and restless, as her mother prattled on excitedly about how they were to go to London in the autumn. Her father, his large hands folded over his stomach, his hat shoved over his eyes, pretended to sleep, Clara suspected, so he would not be forced to participate in the conversation. She gave her father a fond look before returning her gaze out the window.
Hedra seemed unusually restless. “Mrs. Gardener said the baron might be visiting. Might. All this traveling and he might not even be there.” A hefty sigh. “I s’pose we can return later in the autumn. He always visits in the autumn, she says, and this was just a chance. She’s a second cousin, you see.” Clara was well aware of Mrs. Gardener’s relationship with the baron. Mrs. Gardener was a curiosity, to be honest, for Clara could not understand why she had issued the invitation to their home in the first place. They had met her in Bristol; Mrs. Gardener and her daughter, Susan, had been staying at the same hotel and they had struck up a conversation. The two families had lunch together, and Clara had felt Mrs. Gardener was assessing them, or rather, assessing her. Long, thoughtful looks, as if Mrs. Gardener was wondering what she was doing amidst the rest of the Andersons, who, Clara had to admit, seemed an awkward bunch. Clara, recently graduated from Mrs. Ellison’s Seminary for Young Ladies, was meticulous about her social interactions, being careful to put into practice all she had learned.
Hedra, so her grandmother had said, had been a lovely girl, with thick, chestnut hair and brilliant blue eyes. Her face was, perhaps, a bit too square, her jaw too strong for real beauty, but Hedra had been pretty enough, her grandmother said. Now, Hedra was a blocky woman, with iron-gray hair and a bit more bulk on her bones than even a matron should have. Clara and Harriet had gotten their height and hair from their father, their eyes from their mother, and who knows where everything else came from. It would look to an outsider as if Clara and Harriet had been plucked from a cabbage patch and placed with this ordinary couple. Harriet, reed thin and pale, and Clara, a beauty unmatched in all of Cornwall (those were her grandmother’s words as well).
People could be cruel. They seemed to think that Clara would not care if they insulted her parents directly to her, by asking her how two such common people could have produced her. More than once when she was attending the finishing school her mother had insisted she enroll in, a girl had made unkind comments about her parents.
“You must admit it is a curiosity,” one girl had said to another, as if Clara hadn’t been standing with them.
“The only curiosity is why someone would be so rude to say such a thing,” Clara had said, feeling her entire body heat. She disliked confrontation but she would not stand for someone directly insulting the family she loved. The girls seemed mostly confused that Clara would be angry and were not a bit remorseful.
“Clara, are you not listening?”
With an apologetic smile, she said, “I fear I was not, Mother. I was lost in thought.”
“This is an opportunity,” Hedra said, stressing the last word.
“I understand.”
Hedra worried her hands together, clearly not convinced that Clara understood the importance of this visit. Mrs. Gardener was quite a bit higher in social status than they and it was a bit of a coup to have been invited to her home—and with the possibility of meeting a baron. She was someone who could open doors for Clara, put a cloak of respectability on the family.
“Mother, all will be well. You know I comport myself like a queen when I am with company.”
Hedra reached over and patted her hand. “I know. You will charm them and they will ask you to accompany them to all sorts of amusements when we go to London. It shall be lovely.”
Clara gave her mother an indulgent look. “They’ll do no such thing and you know it. But it shall be a lovely visit, and if the baron is there, I shall be my most charming self. I do hope he is not an octogenarian.”
Hedra gave Clara a playful slap to her wrist, then, seemingly satisfied, she closed her eyes and was soon napping. Looking across to where her father sat, Clara noticed that he was indeed sleeping, no longer pretending to sleep. She hoped this visit went well for their sakes. They had sacrificed so much so that she might marry well. Harriet, lucky girl, got to stay home—she always got to stay home whilst Clara was paraded about. Harriet loathed social engagements and her mother had taken pity on her and finally stopped forcing her to join them. Abandoning Harriet to her own devices left Clara alone with her thoughts far too often, and lately her thoughts inevitably drifted to her garden and her gardener. It was quite telling that every time her mother said “Mrs. Gardener,” her heart sped up just a bit, simply at the word “gardener.”
Closing her eyes, a small smile on her lips, she pictured him even now, working on the hothouse foundation. He would be warm, his shirt clinging to his heavy muscles, his hair dark along the edges from his labors. Every once in a while he would stop and survey his work, then frown because she was not there to give him cheer. Did he even note her absence? Was he relieved?
Ugh, should she care? Clara pressed her lips together, angry at herself for dwelling on Mr. Emory. She could have no future with such a man, for Clara had no desire to cause her mother a fatal attack. A giggle nearly bubbled up past her lips at the thought of telling her mother that she and their gardener were planning to court. Hedra would no doubt faint dead away and her father would lock her in her room. Her father might not say much, but he was just as adamant as her mother that she marry well.
“What is all this money if I can’t use it to secure my daughter’s future?” he’d said more than once. Her father had spent a fortune on travel, dresses, lessons on comportment. How ungrateful would she be if she threw it all away on a whim simply because her mother had hired a handsome gardener? Surely she had more self-respect than that!
As the Andersons’ well-sprung carriage made its way to Chatford Manor, Clara vowed that she would no longer look at Mr. Emory as anything other than what he was: a servant.
Chatford Manor was a charming and ancient home, built in the sixteenth century, with a sharply peaked roof and dark gray stone walls, nestled amidst a well-groomed landscape. Clara, who wouldn’t have noticed such a thing three weeks before, looked at the garden with new, appreciative eyes. She amazed herself by recognizing several of the flowers they passed as they traveled down the long drive: the blue ceanothus, its rounded blooms looking much like lilac, swords of delphinium, and a feathery yellow border of thalictrum. Clara had asked that Mr. Emory include the yellow flowers, such a cheerful color, along the path that led to the hothouse.
“Do you think we’ll have time to tour their gardens?” Clara asked her mother, who was still a bit groggy from her nap.
“Only if his lordship asks you. If he’s here, that is.”
Clara looked longingly at the gardens, but nodded. “Perhaps tomorrow,” she said.
Mrs. Gardener stepped out of the door as the Andersons departed from their carriage and greeted the family warmly. “W
elcome to Chatford Manor,” she said. “I do hope you find it agreeable.” The older woman looked directly at Clara when she said this last, and with such meaning, she felt a flash of alarm. When she had met the family in Bristol, it had only been Mr. and Mrs. Gardener and their daughter, Susan. Was there a son? One whom they hoped she would find agreeable?
It soon became obvious, when Mr. Gardener and Susan exited the house, that no other family members would be appearing, so Clara assumed she had imagined that telling look. Still, the feeling that the Gardeners had an ulterior motive for inviting them persisted until they were introduced to Baron Longley, a tall, distinguished gentleman of perhaps forty years with thinning dark hair plastered to his head with pomade and a thin, rather dashing mustache. He was not entirely unappealing and seemed genuinely interested in getting to know her, so Clara thought perhaps this trip hadn’t been entirely a waste of time.
The first evening was pleasantly spent with dinner and music afterwards. Hedra had a tiny bit too much wine with dinner and was slipping into her Cornish dialect, but no one seemed to notice or care. Once they were all in the parlor, Mrs. Gardener convinced Susan to play the piano, and Hedra announced that Clara “sings like an angel” so the group urged them to put on an impromptu performance. Clara, who loved to sing and had been complimented many times for her talent, was more than happy to oblige the request, even when she noted a bit of hesitance from Susan. That hesitance was soon discarded when the two began to perform a Mozart duet, and she could tell by Mrs. Gardener’s expression that she had done justice to the song. Even Susan warmed up to her and the two forged a fledgling friendship, formed through their love of music.
