The actual genealogy of the Montagu line was underwhelming. Mr. Scolfield was related in a distant but direct manner, and I could find nothing that even remotely suggested an illegitimacy that could undo him. I decided it would be best to turn to a more general sort of family history. Odds were we wouldn’t uncover anything damning, but it might at least keep Matilda from coming unhinged while she waited for her unwelcome long-lost cousin.
First, we read her father’s personal papers, which proved dry, dull, and utterly uninformative. He had been strangely obsessed with geese and had named and taken extensive notes about the habits of the ones that summered at Montagu. It was little wonder Matilda’s grandfather had felt relief at outliving his son. Estate management, other than waterfowl preservation, would no doubt have suffered had he ever inherited the title.
“Why did your grandfather leave his fortune to you instead of Archibald?” I asked, as we gathered the old man’s notebooks and journals. “The estate may not have been entailed, but most peers would have wanted to guarantee there was enough money in the hands of the heir to keep up the house, if nothing else.”
“Grandfather knew Archibald had money of his own, and he had a special affection for me. He knew I would manage the finances well, and he knew that I would never let Montagu Manor fall into disrepair, even if it meant taking the burden of expenses onto myself.”
“Despite the fact the house didn’t belong to you?”
“Yes.”
“Did he trust Archibald?”
She looked thoughtful for a moment before answering. “He liked Archie well enough—everyone did—but Archie might not have proven the best landlord, and Grandfather felt the whole estate would be better served if I had control of the money.”
“You are very rich, Matilda,” I said, “and entirely in control of your life. Do you wish to marry?” This might not seem an obvious question. What young lady of our day and age did not want a husband? I, as I suspected Matilda might, knew well the value of being wholly in charge of one’s life. There was a time, after my first husband had died, during which I believed fervently that I would never again marry. For ladies, marriage meant a loss of independence, and I could well believe love mattered far less to Matilda than her freedom.
“Never. Grandfather knew that, too, and no doubt it contributed to his wanting to look after me. He took care to arrange things so that I would never require a husband to maintain my lifestyle.” Matilda did not have the elegant figure currently favored in society. She was strong and sturdy, with broad shoulders and long limbs, more warrior queen than fairy princess, an image cemented by her passion for fencing, an activity in which most ladies would never consider partaking. Her features were even, her eyes perhaps a bit small, but the overall effect was attractive, albeit in an unusual fashion.
“Would you have settled your own fortune on Archibald’s children, had he survived to have some?”
“Not necessarily,” she said. “My plan has always been to set up a trust to maintain Montagu Manor. I love this house and I love the land. Nothing matters more to me.”
We took a break from our work around noon to have a cold luncheon in the cavernous dining room. Spears, swords, and shields hung from the walls between rich modern tapestries whose bright colors were most likely a fair re-creation of their medieval counterparts before the ravages of time had faded them.
“This was one of my grandfather’s favorite parts of the house,” Matilda said. “He insisted that the table be placed like this, up on a dais, with more narrow ones below, just as it would have been in the Middle Ages. My grandmother refused to let him scatter reeds on the floor, no matter how authentic he claimed it would be.”
I smiled and examined the ornate gold saltcellar in the center of the long table at which we sat. “We are above the salt.”
“But of course.” Matilda smiled. “Grandfather would tolerate nothing less. I think it disappointed him greatly that salt is no longer the commodity it was in the Middle Ages. His guests never fully appreciated the honor of being seated above it.”
“Matilda, does it really matter if Rodney Scolfield inherits?” I asked. “Do not get angry with me. You and Archibald had a comfortable understanding of how the estate would be managed. Why couldn’t you have the same with Rodney?”
“I don’t know the man at all. How on earth could I trust him?”
“You could set up a trust for the estate, just as you had planned. He would have no cause to object to that.”
“Perhaps,” Matilda said, “but what are the odds that he would let an unknown relative stay in the house? Even if he did agree to my staying, I don’t harbor the slightest interest in living with a total stranger.”
“You might find that you like him.”
“That, Emily, is utterly impossible. Nothing could be more certain.”
I smiled and pushed my plate away. “Then I suppose our only option is to continue our work in the hope it offers some escape from what seems an unavoidable fate.”
We returned to our research. It quickly become clear that Matilda was very much enjoying reading her grandfather’s papers. It was also clear that he had nothing to say that would impugn Mr. Scolfield. So I left my friend to the reams of papers surrounding her and focused my attention on the earlier Montagu peers. The seventh marquess, Matilda’s great-grandfather, had distinguished himself in the Napoleonic Wars. The third had been born in London during the Great Fire. But the one who most took my fancy was the sixth, not a marquess, but a marchioness, Charlotte, a peer in her own right, just as Matilda might have been had Rodney Scolfield not materialized.
Charlotte had been born in 1758 and inherited when she was twenty-two years old, only a few months before she gave birth to her son, who became the seventh marquess upon the death of his mother in 1805. The marchioness’s portrait hung in a sitting room at Montagu and showed her to be a proud, handsome woman with strong features not unlike Matilda’s. She posed seated on a fallen tree branch, in what I recognized as the grounds at Montagu Manor, wearing a jaunty riding habit and a tall powdered wig that would have given Marie Antoinette pangs of envy. One of the few outbuildings Matilda’s grandfather had left standing, an orangery in the classical style, was visible behind her. Far in the background, a man in livery stood with a horse, holding its reins and looking wistfully at the lady who must have been his employer.
I asked for any family stories about Charlotte, but Matilda knew nothing of her, except that she had inherited the title. “I might have been more taken with her had I, too, been marchioness,” she said. “There doesn’t seem much point now.”
“You’re surrendering to Rodney Scolfield?” I asked.
“No.” Her voice was not so strong as it had been when previously discussing the new Lord Montagu. “Although I shall have to accept him if we cannot find anything of use.”
“Did your nanny ever tell you when the line went illegitimate?”
“It might have been during the Restoration,” she said. “I can’t really remember. Grandfather kept the mementos of the family in a room upstairs. We can root through them if you would like.”
“Where did they come from?”
“When he decided to pull down the old house, he knew he should keep bits of the family history. He didn’t want to reinvent everything, only the space in which he lived. When the staff were emptying the contents before demolition began, my grandfather put aside everything he thought important and then sorted them by person. Each marquess, and the solitary marchioness, has a dedicated trunk.”
“Let’s take a look,” I said. “I do not mean to frustrate you further, Matilda, but the genealogy is so solid it is unlikely that anything in these trunks could change the current situation. Even if there is some sort of irregularity, Mr. Scolfield’s ancestors were accepted as legitimate. If someone came forward today and could prove that George III was, in fact, a bastard, it would not threaten the current queen’s reign.”
“I will cling to any tenu
ous hope,” Matilda said, setting her jaw in fierce determination. “Let us not forget our medieval ancestors who felt no compunction at usurping the throne.”
“A strategy that did not work well in the long run for Richard III,” I said, “although it might have if the throne had not been usurped from him as well.”
“I blame Henry Tudor altogether,” Matilda said.
“Agreed. Wretched man.”
The trunks were neatly stacked in a sunlit room on the second floor of the house. Going through them was a delight, a tactile history of England. I held the seventh marquess’s saber, touched the ermine trim on a robe worn to Charles II’s coronation, and gently cupped in my hands a collection of fragile dried rose petals Charlotte had saved in a dark violet velvet bag. A pale pink drawstring of fine satin closed the container, and attached to it was a slip of paper that read Keep these always. Nothing else in her trunk referred to the petals, but no decent person could have ignored the girlish handwriting on the tag and tossed them out.
The remainder of the afternoon disappeared in a shot; treasure hunting is a pleasant pastime if not always a productive one. Diverted though we were, nothing turned up to cast even the slightest aspersion on Rodney Scolfield’s background. We returned downstairs and called for a pot of tea. Matilda sifted through her mail while I munched on a small cake and wondered what on earth I could do next to keep her occupied and even-tempered.
Even-tempered was not a word that could be used to describe Matilda after she had opened one particular envelope. She frowned as she read and flung the papers on the floor.
“It has already begun,” she said. Her neck and cheeks colored a deep, angry red. “He has hired architects to destroy Montagu. Already. Can you imagine? Setting this in motion before he has taken possession of the house?”
“Who?” I asked.
“Mr. Scolfield, of course.”
“He has never even seen the house,” I said. “How could he know he wants to change it?”
“Not the house. The grounds. The fool has set in motion plans to construct a faux medieval village on the east side of the property. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous?”
“How very Marie Antoinette of him.” I tried to imagine a jungle explorer flitting about the queen’s Petit Trianon and Hamlet.
“I will not allow this.”
“Not allow what?” The voice came from just beyond the door. “Surely you are not already disparaging my plans. I am going to turn Montagu into the medieval fantasy it was meant to be. The house is off to a good start, that much is clear, but there is more to be done.”
A tall, lanky man strolled into the room. Rodney Scolfield, I presumed. His accent was strange, Oxbridge English with just a touch of American, as if he’d spent too much time in New York. Or, given what we knew about his penchant for exploration, the Wild West. His face was deeply tanned and his brown hair streaked from the sun. He carried a well-worn satchel fashioned from the same leather as his boots and held in his right hand what I believe would be called a cowboy hat.
“My dear cousin Mattie!” A wide grin split his face, revealing white, even teeth. “What a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. I’m Rodney Scolfield, but you must call me Rodney. Never did like ceremony, no matter what title is foisted on me.”
Matilda said nothing. She pursed her lips and looked away. Rodney was undaunted.
“I am well aware that I make a certain impression, and it is not always considered to be a good one. You shall get used to me, though. I understand from the family solicitors you would like to keep living here, is that correct?”
Still not a word from Matilda, but there was thunder brewing in her eyes. I felt just a bit sorry for Mr. Scolfield. Or, I corrected myself, Lord Montagu.
“You arrived much sooner than we had expected,” I said. “I am Lady Emily Hargreaves, a friend of your cousin’s. Have ships started crossing the Atlantic at a new record speed?”
“No, no,” he said, taking a seat before one had been offered. “I was already halfway to New York when I heard the news about Archibald and hopped on the first ship I could. Terribly sad death. I was more affected by it than I would have thought, given that I never knew the bloke. Still, he was family, and—”
“More likely you were terribly delighted to hear you had come into such a valuable property, Mr. Scolfield.” Matilda’s emphasis on the “Mr.” left no doubt as to her opinion of her cousin’s new status.
“That is not true at all, Mattie.” He looked sincere.
“My name is Matilda.”
“I prefer Mattie.”
“I was named for Matilda the empress, daughter of Henry I. You are unlikely to be familiar with her.” Matilda’s face hardly moved as she spoke, but the anger clouding her eyes was evident and growing.
“She married the Holy Roman Emperor,” the new Lord Montagu said. “Henry V. I studied history at the Sorbonne.”
“Should I be impressed?” Matilda asked. “You are aware, I hope, that he was not the Henry V who emerged victorious from the field of Agincourt?”
I had not thought about it previously, but Matilda’s name was apt. She, like her namesake, was fighting for what she thought was her birthright. Of course, the Empress Matilda had better resources, not to mention an army.
Lord Montagu studied her face and narrowed his eyes. “Boudica.”
“Pardon?” Matilda scowled.
“Boudica seems a more appropriate name for you. A warrior queen. I shall call you Boudica.”
“I shan’t answer.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said.
Matilda crossed her arms and looked away from him. I suppressed a smile. “Boudica” was a quite decent nickname for her. Boudica, whom Tacitus described driving a chariot and rallying her troops before a battle against the Romans. Boudica, who killed those who had not fled from Londinium and mutilated their corpses before skewering them. Boudica, who took poison after facing defeat. I all but shuddered. Matilda would never be quite that extreme, but I had no difficulty picturing her in command of a chariot.
“Hargreaves…” Lord Montagu paused and turned to me. “You are a neighbor, is that correct?”
“Yes. My husband and I live at Anglemore Park.”
“The coachman pointed it out on our way. Lovely grounds.”
“Thank you.”
“I shall have to meet your husband. Does he like whisky?”
“He does,” I said, feeling something of a traitor to Matilda for conversing with him.
“Tell him I’ll bring him a bottle of my best this evening if that’s convenient.”
Matilda winced, no doubt cringing at the thought that the whisky to which he referred had, only a few days ago, belonged to her. Or at least so she had thought.
“He’s away at the moment, but I expect him back tomorrow.”
“Capital. I shall make up the welcoming party.”
“I take it, Mr. Scolfield, your quest to find Cortés’s lost treasure was less than successful?” Matilda asked.
He laughed. “I never expected to find the gold. That’s bound to be long gone, but I am awfully keen to learn whatever I can about Chicomoztoc, the Aztecs’ lost ancestral city. Do you know about the Aztecs, Boudica?”
“My name is Matilda. You may call me Lady Matilda.”
“How about Empress instead?”
Matilda looked as if she were about to explode. She jumped up from her chair, stomped her foot, and looked—for the first time—directly at her visitor. “You needn’t bother to call me anything. I shall not stay in this house with you any longer than strictly necessary and shall arrange to have my things sent to London at once. Now if you will excuse me, it is time for my fencing practice.”
With that, she tore out of the room, losing several hairpins along the way. All in all, a most impressive exit.
Downstairs
v
Ordinarily, the staff took their meals at regular times, scheduled so as to best avoid
interfering with the family’s needs. Today, however, the servants’ luncheon was later than usual. Mr. Hargreaves had wired to say he would be arriving home sooner than expected and had thrown off Cook’s plans for dinner. She had been a right terror, ordering everyone around in a furious tone. Pru had offered to prepare the servants’ luncheon, but Cook had only rolled her eyes and snorted in response. This set Pru off on a tear, but there were fewer people on whom she could take out her anger than Cook could. When at last the staff sat down to eat, Pru shot wicked glances at Lily all through the meal, until at last Lily could take it no more.
“Have I done something to offend you, Prudence?”
“Prudence? Prudence?” The kitchen maid scoffed. “What sort of airs are you putting on now, missy? One gift from an earl and you think you’re better than the rest of us?”
Lily was not pleased the others knew about Lord Flyte’s painting. Alice must have told them. Much though this chagrined her, she knew her friend would have done it out of excitement and pride rather than envy. She could never be mad with Alice. Alice was closer to her than anyone else in the world, and she knew she could trust her endlessly. If she had asked Alice to keep the painting a secret, she would have. How she wished she had done! “‘Prudence’ was how Mr. Hargreaves referred to you when I was speaking with him. I thought I would extend you the same courtesy.”
Behind the Shattered Glass Page 7
