by Amanda Quick
“I assume you refer to those interesting rumors concerning his lordship’s habit of dabbling in supernatural matters. Personally I don’t believe a word of it.”
“Mayhap you should, madam. For your own sake.”
Beatrice chuckled. “Do not try to frighten me, my good man. You waste your time. I don’t doubt that the local villagers relish such tales. But I consider myself an authority on that sort of thing, and I do not put any credence in the nonsense I have heard.”
Leo frowned. “An authority? What the devil does she mean by that, I wonder.”
Elf sniffed the air.
On the forecourt Beatrice had obviously reached the limits of her patience. “Sally, we are not going to stand out here another moment. Let us go inside.”
She moved with a swiftness that clearly took Finch by surprise.
Leo watched with reluctant admiration as she stepped nimbly around the butler. She swept past him up the stone steps and disappeared through the door into the hall. Sally followed close on her heels.
Finch stared after the pair, openmouthed.
The coachman clapped him sympathetically on the shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself, man. In the short while that I’ve been in her employ, I’ve discovered that Mrs. Poole is a force of nature. Once she’s set her course, the best thing to do is get out of her way.”
“How long have you been with her?” Finch asked blankly.
“She hired me just yesterday morning to bring her here to Monkcrest. But that’s long enough to tell me a good deal about the lady. One thing I’ll say for her, unlike most of the fancy, she looks after her staff. We ate well on the road. And she never shouts and curses at a man like some I could name.”
Finch stared at the empty steps. “I must do something about her. His lordship will be furious.”
“I wouldn’t fret about your master if I were you,” the coachman said cheerfully. “Mrs. Poole will deal with him, even if he is a bit odd, as some say.”
“You don’t know his lordship.”
“No, but as I said, I do know something of Mrs. Poole. Your Mad Monk is about to meet his match.”
Leo stepped back and closed the window. “The coachman may have a point, Elf. A prudent man would no doubt exert a great deal of caution in any dealings with the formidable Mrs. Poole.”
Elf gave the canine equivalent of a shrug and padded back to the hearth.
“I wonder why she has come here.” Leo shoved a hand through his damp hair. “I suppose there is only one way to discover the answer to that.”
Elf, as usual, did not respond. He settled down in front of the fire and closed his eyes.
Leo sighed as he reached for the bellpull to summon Finch. “I shall no doubt regret this. But on the positive side, the evening promises to become vastly more interesting than it was an hour ago.”
BEATRICE TOOK A deep swallow of the piping hot tea. “Wonderful. This is just the tonic I needed.”
Sally studied the contents of the tray the maid had brought up from the kitchens. “There ain’t no bloody gin.” She glared at the hapless girl. “See ‘ere, where’s me gin?”
The maid flinched. “Cook sent some of her own. It’s in the decanter.”
“In that fancy little bottle, is it?” Sally eyed the small crystal decanter dubiously. “I reckon it’ll do.” She poured herself a hefty draft and swallowed half of it in one gulp. “Mais oui.”
Vastly relieved, the maid bent to the task of arranging the toast and slices of cold fish pie.
“Bloody ’ell.” Sally took another sip from her glass and collapsed on a chair in front of the fire. “I thought we would never get here, ma’am. What with that highwayman and the storm. Ye’d think some diabolical supernatural forces were at work tryin’ to keep us away from this place, n’est-ce pas?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sally.”
The dishes on the tea tray clattered loudly. Beatrice heard a small, startled gasp.
“Oh,” the maid whispered. “Sorry, ma’am.”
Beatrice glanced at the girl and saw that she was young. No more than sixteen at the most. “Is something wrong?”
“No, ma’am.” The maid hastily adjusted the plates and straightened the pot of jam. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Beatrice frowned. “What is your name?”
“Alice, ma’am.”
“You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost, Alice. Are you ill?”
“No. Honest, ma’am.” Alice wiped her hands nervously on her apron. “I’m healthy as a horse, as me ma would say. Really I am.”
“I’m delighted to hear that”
Sally eyed Alice with a considering look. “She looks scared to death, if ye ask me.”
Alice drew herself up proudly. “I’m not scared of anything.”
“Au contrary,” Sally said grandly.
“Au contraire,” Beatrice murmured.
“Au contraire,” Sally dutifully repeated.
Alice looked at Sally with great curiosity. “Cook says yer a fancy French lady’s maid. Is that true?”
“Absolument” Sally glowed with pride. “Back in London all the fine ladies prefer to hire French maids, just like they prefer French dressmakers and hatmakers and such.”
“Oh.” Alice was suitably impressed.
Beatrice frowned. “Alice, surely you do not fear your master’s reaction to my unexpected visit here tonight. In spite of what the butler said, I cannot believe his lordship would blame his staff for my presence under his roof.”
“No, ma’am,” Alice said quickly. “It ain’t that. I’ve only worked here for a few weeks, but I know that his lordship wouldn’t blame me for somethin’ that wasn’t my fault. Everyone knows he’s peculiar—” She broke off, obviously horrified by her own words.
“Peculiar?” Sally prompted sharply. “Que c’est?”
Alice’s face turned a very bright shade of red. “Well, he is one of the Mad Monks. Me ma says his father and his grandfather were odd too, but I never meant—”
Beatrice took pity on her. “Calm yourself, Alice. I promise not to tell his lordship that you called him peculiar.”
Alice struggled valiantly to undo the damage. “What I meant to say is that everyone on Monkcrest lands knows that the Mad Monks take care of their own. They be good lords, ma’am.”
“Then you need not fear his temper.” Beatrice smiled. “But just in case anyone in this household has a few concerns on the subject, rest assured that I fully intend to explain matters to your master. When I have finished meeting with him, he will comprehend everything perfectly.”
Alice’s eyes widened. “But, ma’am, he already does. Know everything perfectly, I mean.”
Sally glowered at her. “What the bloody ’ell do ye mean by that?”
Alice did not appear to notice the lapse into English cant. Awe mingled with excitement on her young face. “I heard Finch tell Cook that when he went to inform his lordship that you were here, the earl already knew that you had arrived.”
“Quel amazing,” Sally whispered.
Beatrice was amused. “Astonishing.”
“Yes, ma’am. It was the most amazing thing. Finch said his lordship knew everything about your visit. That you’d come all the way from London and that you had a French lady’s maid and that a highwayman had stopped you on the other side of the river. He even knew that you wanted to meet with him in ‘alf an hour.”
“The highwayman?” Beatrice asked blandly. “I’d rather avoid another encounter with him, if possible.”
“No, ma’am,” Alice said impatiently. “His lordship.”
The earl had certainly done a fine job of impressing his staff with an image of omnipotence, Beatrice thought. “You don’t say.”
Alice nodded with a confiding air. “No one understands how his lordship could know things like that, but Cook says it’s typical. Finch says the master has his ways.”
“Ah, yes, his lordship’s ways.” Beatrice took another sip of tea. “Alice, I
hate to disillusion you, but I suspect that your master did not employ metaphysical intuition to gain his amazing foreknowledge. I think it far more likely that he simply opened a window and put his head out so that he could overhear my conversation with his butler.”
Alice stiffened, clearly offended by the suggestion that the earl might have done something as ordinary as to eavesdrop. “Oh, no, ma’am. I’m sure he didn’t do any such thing. Why ever would he stick his head out into the rain?”
“Peculiar behavior, indeed,” Beatrice murmured. “Perhaps we may hazard a guess as to why he is known as the Mad Monk, hmm?”
Alice looked crushed by Beatrice’s failure to be impressed with the earl’s mysterious ways. She backed toward the door. “Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am. Will ye be wanting anything else?”
“That will be all for now,” Beatrice said. “Thank you, Alice.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The girl departed quickly.
Beatrice waited until the door closed. Then she picked up a piece of toast and took a bite. “I do believe I’m quite famished, Sally.”
“Moi too.” Sally seized the largest slice offish pie and a fork. “Ye can make light o’ that business with the ‘ighwayman, if ye want, ma’am. But I vow, we’re lucky to be alive. I saw the look in ’is eye. A nasty sort.”
“We were fortunate to have such a skilled coachman. Luckily John is not inclined to panic.”
“Hah.” Sally shoved a large piece of pie into her mouth. “Coachmen are all alike. Reckless, they are. And drunk as lords most of the time. No, it was yer little pistol what scared off the bloke, not John.”
“I know it’s been a difficult journey, Sally. Thank you again for agreeing to come with me on such short notice. I could not drag my cousin and my aunt out of Town at this time. They had invitations to a most important soiree. And I did not want to bring my poor housekeeper along. Mrs. Cheslyn is not a good traveler.”
Sally shrugged. “’Ere now, don’t ye fret none. I was glad to ’ave the opportunity to practice me French. I’ll be graduatin’ from The Academy soon and gettin’ ready to apply for work in a great household. Got to ’ave me accent right, n’est-ce pas?”
“Your accent is improving daily. Have you selected a new name yet?”
“I’m still torn between somethin’ simple like Marie and one with a bit more to it. What do ye think of Jacqueline?”
“Very nice.”
“Mais oui.” Sally hoisted her glass of gin. “Jacqueline it is.”
Beatrice smiled. Fortunately for Sally and her atrocious accent, it was considered the height of fashion to employ a French maid. In the effort to obtain one, most of the ladies of the ton would willingly overlook a dubious accent. The simple truth was that there were not enough French maids, dressmakers, or milliners to go around. One could not be too choosy.
Of course, she reflected, if any of Sally’s potential employers ever realized that it was not just her accent that was questionable, but her past as well, things could become a bit more complicated.
Sally, together with the rest of the women who went through The Academy, all had one thing in common. They had once eked out meager existences as prostitutes in London’s worst stews.
Beatrice and her friend Lucy Harby—known to her clients as the exclusive French modiste Madame D’Arbois—had not set out to offer poor women a way off the streets. Faced with genteel poverty, they had both been too busy saving themselves from careers as governesses to worry about saving others. But once they were safely launched in their new professions, fate and Beatrice’s upbringing as a vicar’s daughter had intervened.
The first young girl, bleeding from a miscarriage, had arrived at the back door of Lucy’s new dress shop a month after it opened. Beatrice and Lucy had carried her upstairs to the cramped quarters they shared. When it had become certain that the girl would survive, they had concocted a scheme to find her a new profession.
The ticket to a better life was a fake French accent.
The plan to remodel the young prostitute into a French lady’s maid had worked so well that The Academy had been born.
Five years had passed since that fateful night. Beatrice now had her own small town house. Lucy, who had become the more financially successful of the pair with her outrageously priced gowns, had married a wealthy fabric merchant who valued her business talents. She had moved into a fine new house in an expensive neighborhood, but she continued to operate her dressmaking salon as Madame D’Arbois.
Beatrice and Lucy had converted their old quarters above the dress shop into a schoolroom and hired a tutor to teach rudimentary French to desperate young women.
Occasionally they lost one of their students back to the streets. Beatrice’s spirits were always down for a while after such incidents. Lucy, far more practical about such matters, took the philosophical approach. You cannot save everyone.
Beatrice knew her friend was right; nevertheless, she was, at heart, a vicar’s daughter. It was not easy for her to accept the failures.
Sally studied the gloomy stone walls of the chamber. “Do ye think this place is haunted like the innkeeper’s wife said?”
“No, I do not,” Beatrice said firmly. “But I do have the impression that his lordship’s staff rather enjoys their master’s bizarre reputation.”
Sally shuddered. “The Mad Monks o’ Monk-crest. Gives one the shivers, n’est-ce pas?”
Beatrice grimaced. “Do not tell me that you actually believe some of the tales the innkeeper’s wife told us last night.”
“Fit to give a person nightmares, they were. All that talk of wolves and sorcery and ‘orrible events in the night.”
“It was all rubbish.”
“Then why did ye let her carry on until nearly midnight?” Sally retorted.
“I thought it was an amusing way to pass the time.”
Sally knew nothing of the real purpose behind the frantic trip into the wilds of Devon. As far as she was concerned, Beatrice had come to see the Earl of Monkcrest on obscure family business. Which was actually no more than the truth, Beatrice thought.
“From the sound of ’im, he could have walked straight out of one of Mrs. York’s novels.” Another shudder sent a tremor through Sally’s full bosom. “Quel mysterious, n’est-ce pas? Strikes me as just the sort of gentry cove what lives in moldering ruins and sleeps in crypts and never comes out in the daylight.”
Beatrice was surprised. “Do you mean to tell me that you read Mrs. York’s novels?”
“Well, I don’t read too good meself,” Sally admitted. “But there’s always someone around who can read ’em aloud to the rest of us. I like the bits with the ghosts and the bloody fingers beckonin’ in the dark passageways best.”
“I see.”
“We’re all lookin’ forward to Mrs. York’s new one, The Castle of Shadows. Rose says ‘er mistress bought a copy. As soon as the lady’s finished readin’ it, Rose is going to borrow it and read it to us.”
“I had no notion that you were interested in horrid novels.” A small, familiar rush of pleasure went through her. “I shall be happy to lend you my copy of The Castle of Shadows.”
Sally’s eyes widened with delight. “That’s very nice of ye, Mrs. Poole. We’ll all be ever so grateful.”
Not as grateful as I am, Beatrice thought.
It always gave her a quiet thrill to learn that someone enjoyed the novels she penned under the pseudonym Mrs. Amelia York. She said nothing to Sally about her secret identity as an authoress, however. Only Lucy and the members of her family knew that she wrote for a living.
She followed Sally’s glance around the room. Perhaps she would make some notes before she left. Monkcrest Abbey was nothing if not picturesque. Thick stone walls, arched doorways, and what appeared to be endless miles of gloom-filled passageways all went together to create a house that would fit quite nicely into one of her novels.
En route to their chambers, she and Sally had passed through a long gallery filled with a numb
er of artifacts and antiquities. Greek, Roman, and Zamarian statues gazed with impassive stone faces from a variety of niches. Cabinets filled with shards of pottery and ancient glass occupied odd corners in the halls.
In addition to being a scholar, Beatrice reflected, Monkcrest was obviously a collector of antiquities.
She closed her eyes and allowed herself to absorb the atmosphere of the ancient stone walls.
Awareness fluttered through her. For an instant she could feel the weight of the years. It was a vague, wispy, indescribable sensation, one she often had in the presence of very old buildings or artifacts. The invisible vapors flowed around her.
There was melancholia, of course. She often felt it in structures this ancient. But there was also a sense of the future. The house had known times of happiness in the past and it would know them again. The heavy layers of history pressed in on her. But there was nothing here that would give her nightmares or keep her awake tonight.
When she opened her eyes she realized that her dominant impression of Monkcrest Abbey was that of a sense of loneliness.
“Imagine living in a ruin such as this,” Sally said. “Mayhap ‘is lordship really is a madman.”
“Monkcrest Abbey is not precisely a ruin. It is quite old but it appears to be in excellent repair. This is not the house of a madman.”
Beatrice did not attempt to explain her sensibility to atmosphere to Sally. It was a part of her that she had never been able to put into words. But she was quite certain that she spoke the truth. The earl might well be reclusive, inhospitable, and eccentric, but he was not crazed.
Sally took another bite of pie. “How can ye be certain the Mad Monk won’t lock us in the cellar and perform strange occult rituals on us?”
“From what little I know of that sort of thing, I am under the impression that one needs virgins in order to perform most occult rituals.” Beatrice grinned. “Neither of us qualifies.”
“Mais oui.” Sally brightened. “Well, then, that’s a relief, ain’t it? I believe I’ll have a bit more gin.”
