“I will inform Brantley that the Flemish armor needs to be cleaned down. Don’t worry. I imagine that Mrs. Redbreast will turn up a recipe to remove any odors.” He ruffled his hand through George’s hair. “If you wish, George, you may accompany us to the breakfast parlor.”
“He loves bacon.”
“Yes, I remember you telling me that. I believe my uncle just went in. You are an early riser.”
“Yes.”
“Somehow I am not surprised.”
When we came into the small, quite charming, circular breakfast room, with windows bowing around its entire perimeter, Lawrence immediately rose from his chair. “Good morning, my dear. I trust you slept well?”
“Immensely well. I instructed George to alert me if any otherworldly specters paid us a visit. If any did, we both slept right through their welcome.”
“Don’t listen to Amelia. She’s her father’s daughter, and that means that she must believe in ghosts and bizarre phenomena that naturally don’t exist here at Devbridge Manor, or anywhere else for that matter.”
He turned to John. “You are the first one about, John. I am pleased. I have alerted Swanson that we will be in the estate room promptly at nine o’clock. Your education will begin.”
John only nodded then turned to the sideboard that held at least a half dozen silver-domed trays. I joined him, delighted that the plates stacked at the end of the sideboard were nice and large.
To Lawrence’s evident surprise, no sooner had John and I sat down to eat than Amelia and Thomas came arm in arm into the room.
“I didn’t cough a single time when I opened my eyes this morning,” Thomas said, and beamed at us all. “Amelia pronounced me well enough to come down.”
He looked so beautiful, his face so pure in its lines and planes, that I simply stared at him, a forkful of scrambled eggs halfway to my mouth.
“Do get hold of yourself,” John said.
“It is difficult. Is there not anything ugly about him?”
“Not that I have ever seen,” John said, and smiled toward his brother, who was dishing up an immense amount of food onto his plate, all the while telling Lawrence about the very brief bout of elevated breathing he’d awakened to at about two o’clock in the morning.
“I massaged his chest until his heart rate slowed,” Amelia said, all seriousness and concern. “I must admit to being alarmed for a moment there.”
John cocked a black eyebrow at his brother. “Whatever were you doing at two o’clock in the morning to increase the speed of your heart?”
Thomas blushed scarlet, from just above his cravat to his hairline.
“Oh,” John said, and saluted his brother with his knife. “If your heart had not speeded up, Thomas, then it wasn’t worth the effort. It’s natural, trust me on this.”
“That’s what I told him,” Amelia said, in a voice as cool as the two slices of toast she slipped onto her plate.
I fed bacon to George, who was thankfully minding his manners, sitting between me and John. I kept my head down, all my attention on George chomping down on that bacon. I knew what they were talking about. I wasn’t stupid. I couldn’t believe they’d talk about such things at the breakfast table.
Lawrence cleared his throat and lightly touched his hand to my shoulder. “Ah, here is Miss Crislock. Welcome, dear lady. May I serve you some eggs and kippers?”
I had not expected to see her until the afternoon. “Yes, Milly, do join us.”
Once Miss Crislock was seated, a cup of tea placed gently in front of her, and everyone had been introduced to her, Lawrence said to the table at large, “Are you familiar with Oliver Wilton?”
“Yes,” Amelia said. “He was the Duke of Broughton. My father knows him, said he was an old fossil with a splendid brain. I believe he died recently.”
“Yes, that’s right. Actually, he was Andy’s grandfather. Her first cousin, Peter Wilton, has inherited the dukedom. He is the seventh Duke of Broughton. He is the former duke’s grandson. Peter and Andy were raised together when they were young because Peter’s parents were killed when he was a small child.”
“Actually,” I said, trying to smile at everyone, “Peter and I are more brother and sister than first cousins, and have treated each other as such since I was just a little girl.”
“Then, what is your name, Andy?” Thomas asked as he carefully studied the crock of sweet butter at his elbow. Was there a bug of some sort in the butter? Finally, he pushed it away and began looking over the apricot jam, which was absolutely delicious.
I said, even as I fed George another bit of bacon, “When I went to live with my grandfather, he was going to adopt me and change my name to his, but my mother requested that he wouldn’t, and so I still have my father’s name. I’m Andrea Jameson.”
“Andrea Jameson Lyndhurst,” Lawrence said. “Regardless, she is Oliver Wilton’s granddaughter, only offspring of his daughter, Olivia, who was named after him.”
“Both you and your cousin orphaned at such early ages,” Amelia said. “No, dearest, I think you would prefer the scrambled eggs from this platter. They’re more firmly cooked, thus reducing the chance of inflaming your stomach.”
Thomas nodded, smiled at his wife, and helped himself to a huge helping of the firmer scrambled eggs.
George barked.
John looked down at that precious little face with the hair hanging nearly to his jaws, and said, “George, you are so spoiled you will next demand to climb up on my lap and eat off my plate.”
“I have never believed,” Miss Crislock said in her sweet voice, “that an animal should be allowed in the same room where there is food. However, when I met George, I was so quickly besotted, I was willing to let him even drink my chocolate in the morning. He is a despot, that small fellow.”
And my very tolerant husband of four days laughed.
Thirty minutes later I was back in The Blue Room replacing my soft kid slippers with some stouter walking boots. The morning was lovely, and Amelia was ready to explore the grounds with me.
I was whistling as I untied the ribbons around my ankles. A sudden glint of light made me blink. I turned my head at the same angle again, and there was another glint. It remained. I cocked my head in question and walked, one slipper on my foot and the other off, to the long bank of windows.
I faced east. The morning light was brilliant. I opened one of the wide windows and looked out. I could see the lads with their long wooden staffs driving the cows to pasture. I heard the gardeners talking about the roses in the lower garden just beneath my window. Then I heard a knock at my bedchamber door.
I turned only to feel a tug at the sleeve of my gown and then a tear. I looked down to see that my sleeve had caught on a jagged piece of metal attached to the outside of the window casement. Carefully I managed to lift the material from the jagged metal.
“Now, what is this?” I said aloud. George wuffed, but didn’t get up from the soft rug in front of the fireplace. I looked more closely. It was a small, sharp piece of metal, and it seemed to be buried partially in a small circular hole. Holes—in the window casing? I looked more closely and realized quickly enough that there were several such holes placed at equal intervals along the outside casing.
There was another knock on the door.
“Come,” I called out.
It was Amelia. “I am just changing my shoes,” I said, smiling toward her. “I will meet you at the front door.”
The moment she closed the door, I was back at the windows, studying that long row of holes.
I nearly fell over when I realized exactly what those neatly lined-up holes meant.
There had been bars in this window. I looked upward and saw matching holes in the window casing at the top of the windows.
“Oh, goodness,” I said, and rubbed the gooseflesh on my arms. My heart began to pound, slow sharp beats. The Blue Room was the bedchamber none of them thought I should have. And I had wondered why.
There had been bars
in these windows. Who had been imprisoned in here? How long ago had it been?
Maybe a mad uncle in the last century, I thought, and looked over at George, who was still snoozing with his little head on his front paws.
I walked to all the other windows and flung them open, only to find that all the windows were just the same. At some point all of them had been barred.
I shivered, not from the cold of the fresh air pouring into the room, but from my discovery. It made no sense. Someone had imprisoned a mad relative in this beautiful room?
Naturally, there was an excellent explanation. It wasn’t a question of otherworldly phenomena or errant specters, unless the specters had terrorized the inhabitant of this beautiful bedchamber into madness.
I flung my slipper across the room. I had turned very suddenly into a twit. This was nonsense, all of it. Who cared if there were bars? For heaven’s sake, this house had been built nearly four hundred years ago. There were probably ancient bloodstains on many of the floors. Each room in this magnificent house had known death in all shapes and forms.
Those damned bars—they had to be from a long time ago. They had nothing to do with me. Still, I was intrigued. I would ask Lawrence as soon as I could find him alone. I slowly closed the windows, every one of them.
I found my boots in the bottom of the armoire and pulled them on. I laced them slowly, every few seconds looking back toward the windows, picturing those lines of holes, picturing black bars not more than six inches apart, picturing a vague image clutching desperate hands around those bars, screaming to the night air to be freed.
I left George to sleep off his bacon and went downstairs to meet Amelia.
Chapter Ten
Amelia was waiting for me just outside the great front doors of Devbridge Manor. It was a warm day, quite unexpected for November. A light breeze stirred the air, with only a lingering hint of chill. Yorkshire wasn’t a thing like the counties to the south. It was ruggedly beautiful, and everything seemed oversized—huge clumps of trees, all densely clustered together in the midst of a barren plain, grand masses of rocks in the oddest places, as if strewn there by a god’s whimsical hand. And, of course, there were the endless Yorkshire moors. The Grannard moor was just off to the east, so desolate with its stark and forlorn barrows and hillocks and its deep gullies that sliced haphazardly through the land like very old scars. I loved it, always had. During the past three years, though, Grandfather had preferred either the small manor house in Penzance at the end of rugged, mournful Cornwall, or the fifty-year-old Putnam Square town house in London that now belonged to Peter. Deerfield Hall was also now Peter’s responsibility. Everything was now Peter’s responsibility. I wondered if he would sell out and return to England to take over his duties as the seventh duke of Broughton. I hoped he would come to Deerfield Hall, his country seat now, and so very close to my new home. I felt a deep ache thinking of how we had parted in London just before my marriage to Lawrence. But Peter was fair. He would observe that I was happy, and he would come about.
I breathed in the richly scented country air, pulling it deeply into my body. I couldn’t see the Grannard moor from here, but it was close, and just knowing that, made me want to take George there. I could see him staring at the strange landscape, wondering exactly what I expected him to do with it. George was used to London and all its noise and traffic. There wasn’t a dray or a cart or the most elegant carriage he wouldn’t chase until his short legs finally buckled under him.
But here, he would learn about an entirely different life. Perhaps I could take him to the Grannard moor this afternoon. I had left him sleeping soundly, after stuffing himself at breakfast.
Amelia said, as she carefully eased a pin into her hair, “It’s lovely today, isn’t it? I remember standing here just like you are, just looking around and taking everything in. It might take some getting used to. Many people hate Yorkshire.”
“Do you?”
“I come from Somerset. Gentle valleys and hills and easy little streams crisscross the land through all the farms.”
“Sort of like an innocent maiden mated to a violent warrior?”
She blinked, and I couldn’t blame her for that. As a comparison, it was perhaps not all that accurate.
“If by that you mean that Somerset is the innocent maiden and Yorkshire is the warrior, then, exactly,” Amelia said. “I’ve gotten used to it during the past year. Now I quite like it. Come with me to the stables. I want you to meet Buttercup, my sweet mare that my father brought over from Wexford. Also, has Uncle Lawrence yet offered you a mount?”
“No, not as yet.”
The Devbridge stables were immaculate, the sun shining brightly down on the bright red tile roof. The paddocks were white, obviously kept freshly painted, and as I looked out into the nearest paddock, I fell in love.
He was an immense black-as-sin stallion, with a streak of white down the middle of his head and four white socks. His head had the proud tilt of an Arabian mare I once rode, but there was little else graceful and lithe about him. He was at least seventeen hands high, heavy strong legs, and thick powerful chest.
“What is it, Andy?”
“Just a moment, Amelia. I’ve lost my heart. I’ll join you in a bit.”
I walked toward the paddock, seeing only that magnificent animal. I called out to him. “Good day to you, Beauty.”
To my astonishment and pleasure, he turned his great head toward me and whinnied. I reached the paddock and climbed the fence. I held out my hand to him, calling him beauty and angel and even an archangel, but I came back again and again to Beauty. I didn’t have anything for him. I hoped he wouldn’t take it amiss and bite my hand.
Again, to my delight, when I called to him, he trotted toward me, his tail swishing from side to side, his great head nodding up and down. He was perhaps four years old, in perfect health, his coat glistening beneath the bright morning sun.
He butted his big head against my hand and nearly pushed me backward off the fence. I laughed. “You are wonderful, you know that? Certainly you do. I should have asked Amelia who you were. I wonder what your name is. I can’t keep calling you Beauty, not a handsome fellow like you.”
“His name is Tempest.”
I turned slowly, Tempest still butting my hand, to see John standing six feet behind me, dressed for riding.
“Why aren’t you with your uncle and Swanson, the estate manager? You’re supposed to be studying hard, readying yourself for the day when finally you may take over?”
“Swanson’s wife just birthed twins. My uncle decided to let him remain with her today.”
“I should think so.” I waved toward Tempest. Of course I knew the answer even as I asked. “He is yours?”
“Yes. You can forget snagging him for yourself. He is a soldier’s horse, strong and intelligent, and meaner than the devil when he has to be. He is flirting with you right now, but were you to try to ride him, he would either ignore you entirely or toss you in the nearest river.”
“Oh, no, he wouldn’t.” I turned back to Tempest. “Will you allow me to ride you?”
That grand animal eyed me with benevolence, I would swear that he did exactly that. “I ride well, it’s just that I haven’t been able to ride in a while. I’m really quite good. Anyone who is a good rider knows that a rider’s physical strength has nothing to do with anything.”
“Tempest is smart, but I doubt even he understood all of that. Besides, that last was meant for me. You might as well turn around and face me. Ask me if you may ride my horse.”
I turned on the fence. “May I ride your horse, John?”
“No. Absolutely not. He gets impatient, he has his own ideas about where he wants to go, and when, and exactly what route he wants to take. He requires mastery, which he now accepts that I have. He can become vicious. What would I tell my uncle if I were to let you ride my horse and Tempest killed his blushing new bride?”
“I’m not blushing.”
“The other
two are true.”
“All right, just what would you tell him?”
“Well, if you ever did ride Tempest, it would be without my permission, and you would deserve whatever he did to you. I would have to tell my uncle that his bride was an idiot.”
“An idiot, am I? Now I will tell you what I think. You’re being rude because I didn’t flutter my hands and fall at your feet and whimper all over you in London. Admit it. It is not what you are used to from ladies. And now you have turned nasty. I will admit that I’ve been called things, but never an idiot.”
He came up to stand beside me at the paddock. He put one foot up on a fence railing. He was wearing black Hessians, so perfectly polished I could see my frown in them, and something else. I could see that I was wary, very wary. Now that I saw the proof, I brought in the coldest thoughts I could to counteract what he made me feel. He was much too big, he knew it, he used it to dominate, but he couldn’t hurt me, not here, not on his uncle’s estate.
“A twit, then,” he said.
“No, a twit is even worse than an idiot. I won’t have either of them. It’s true, isn’t it? You are probably used to having to turn ladies away.”
He cocked his head to one side and studied me a moment. I looked at my reflection in his boots again. I looked both cold and slightly arrogant. He said finally, his voice slow and thoughtful, “That is ridiculous. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You are just trying to rile me. When I first saw you in Hyde Park, I wanted to meet you.” He shrugged and looked past me. “There was something about you that drew my interest. I recognized you were in deep mourning, but I promise you, there was never a wicked thought in my head. Then, to my surprise, you couldn’t wait to get away from me. You were rude. I remember wanting to smack you, but I couldn’t, not being a gentleman. No, I bided my time until I saw you again. But it didn’t matter, none of it.”
He turned away to walk farther down the paddock, gave a light nearly soundless whistle, and Tempest raised his great head and snorted. He trotted up to John without hesitation and butted his shoulder. If he had done that to me, he would have knocked me into the dirt. John just laughed and continued to stroke Tempest’s nose. He said over his shoulder, “It wasn’t until the third time I spoke to you that I finally realized what was wrong. For some reason I still cannot fathom, you were and still are, afraid of me.”
The Countess Page 9
