by Valerie King
Sir Alfred was the acknowledged leader of the local gentry. He was much older than everyone else present, being near fifty. His black hair was streaked with silver and many years of hunting out of doors had lent a weathered appearance to his countenance. His jowls sagged a trifle over what she had always thought was a mulish jaw.
“I am inclined to think,” Evelina said, addressing him, “that you ought to be the one to speak with Lord Rotherstone. Yours is the largest consequence of our small party. Surely he would give you an audience were you to request one.”
“You think so?” he queried, clearly unconvinced. “Let me remind you that the last time I tipped my hat to him at the Bull in Maybridge, he lifted a brow and stared at me as though I had just sneezed on his best coat.”
With that, Colonel Willoughby Carfax, cousin to Lord Rotherstone, laughed heartily. He was of an age with the earl and had attended Oxford with him, but Evelina already knew enough of their history not to bother placing this particular obligation on him. “Do not even ask,” he said, smiling. “Everyone here knows that my cousin has taken an incomprehensible dislike of me.”
Evelina smiled in some sympathy upon the colonel. He was a handsome man of perhaps two or three and thirty years and possessed one of the most generous dispositions she had ever encountered. Though she had only known the Earl of Rotherstone by way of his reputation, his treatment of one of his closest relations certainly did him no honor at all.
She could only wonder, however, just how she was to gain Rotherstone’s cooperation. She had more than once determined to seek him out herself but had quailed time and again by recalling all the accounts she had heard of him. He was, if the general report of him was to be believed, a wholly unapproachable man.
Mrs. Rewell sighed, drawing all attention to her. She was a small, rather spiritless woman who had never had even the weakest command over her offspring. “He was not always so very bad,” she said, her blue eyes drooping sadly. “I recall quite well that before Miss Punnett broke off her engagement with him, he was a friendly sort of young man. He is very much changed from that time, and now his character seems quite fixed. I only wish he had sold off his property when his father died, then we might have secured a better neighbor, certainly one more obliging who would be interested in bettering our community.”
“That is my point, exactly, Mrs. Rewell,” Evelina said. “We do not know whether he would be disinterested or not, and I daresay we shall never know if we do not make a push.”
“Perhaps you had best speak to him, then,” Mr. Rewell suggested. “He does not know you, except through the idle gossip of servants, and he might be persuaded by someone younger and, dare I say, quite pretty."
Evelina thought this ridiculous in the extreme. “If Miss Ambers, who is by far the prettiest lady in the entire vale, could not persuade him to give a tuppence to a few starving children, I doubt he would be moved in the least by my request that he permit his neighbors to invade his lands.”
“Only tell us,” the colonel said, “why it is you are so intent on making a push in the first place. You seem quite confident of success. What is it you have discovered that you have not yet told us?”
Evelina could not help but smile. The moment had come for which she had been waiting from the time the entire group had assembled. “Last night, I happened to be in one of the attics used for storage, sorting through trunks. I had found a very old bottle of brandy, which told me that the contents of this attic were quite old indeed, and that the attic itself belonged to the original structure.”
“Brandy, you say?” George Fuller interjected, sitting up a little straighter in his seat.
Evelina smiled but shook her head as she rose to her feet. “Mr. Fuller, it is not yet two in the afternoon.”
Mr. Fuller pretended to be mystified. “What is your meaning? I do not take your meaning.”
“And what a ridiculous man you are,” she said.
Everyone laughed, including Mr. Fuller, who, at nearly thirty and giving great evidence of becoming a confirmed bachelor, showed on most occasions a predilection for strong drink.
Miss Ambers sat forward in her seat. “But what is it, Lady Evelina? What did you find in the attics? Was it something in one of the trunks?”
“As it happens, I did not find this clue in the trunk. Through an unhappy accident, I discovered that the floor is quite rotten in several places. Merely walking from one trunk to the next caused my foot to break through several boards—no, I was not in the least injured—and that was when I found this.”
She moved to the table nearest the entrance hall in order to retrieve the map that she had rolled up in a length of dark blue velvet. Taking up a place near the hearth, she slowly unveiled the map. Every pair of eyes was fixed on the document, and more than one brow rose in some interest.
“It is a map,” Miss Rewell stated, her eyes wide.
“Any dolt might see as much,” her brother said, much disgusted. “But what terrain does it cover?”
Evelina felt her heart begin to race. “It is a very old map of our neighborhood,” she returned. “Indeed, the date is set at 1652.”
A round of faint murmurs and gasps passed through the drawing room.
She continued, “Many of you have told me about the smuggling traffic along both coasts lining the English Channel that began centuries ago. As many of you know, one of these notorious smugglers was supposed to have buried a portion of his treasure somewhere betwixt Summersfield to the north and Studdingly to the south.” She gestured to these places as indicated on the map, each with a large scrolled S. “I believe this to be a genuine map indicating the exact location of the treasure.”
Another outbreak of murmuring and gasping traveled about the assembled guests.
Mary Ambers left her seat at once and came to peer closely at the thin, yellowed parchment. Mrs. Huggett, her companion, joined her.
Mary Ambers was a beautiful young woman who resided in Victory Cottage in the village of Maybridge. She had taken up residence there less than a year prior with her much older cousin, Mrs. Huggett, known to be a widow. Both ladies were well received in local society and were invited everywhere. Mrs. Huggett was a sensible, genteel but impoverished woman with a cheerful countenance.
“Do but look, Eugenia,” Miss Ambers began, “even Maybridge is indicated.”
“Mm,” Mrs. Huggett responded quietly.
As Miss Ambers touched the map very lightly, Evelina said, “Yes, all of you please have a look and give me your general impressions and opinions. It is possible, after all, that I may be mistaken.”
As one, the remainder of the group left their seats and stations and converged on the map. A chattering erupted that did not cease until Colonel Carfax, his complexion rather heightened, suggested that the map be placed on a table for better viewing. Since this notion was approved of at once, Evelina took the parchment, along with the length of velvet, and returned it to the large table near the entrance. She weighted each corner with the nearest objects she could find, including a small ormolu clock and a green rock Will had dug up from the garden in recent weeks. Once more the crowd gathered round.
The next hour was spent by one and all scrutinizing Evelina’s find. A variety of opinions were expressed concerning the authenticity of the map, but most agreed it had to be genuine since the state of the paper itself was so very fragile.
Stephen Rewell said, “These must be riddles of a sort, and there are five of them. Does anyone have a notion as to what they might mean?”
The entire group fell silent, all eyes intent on the map.
Miss Ambers said, “I believe there are six.”
“I thought as much at first,” Mr. Rewell said, “But one of them is repeated. It appears at both the top and the bottom of the map.”
“So it does,” Miss Ambers said. She then read that particular riddle aloud. “Time is lost, a smuggler’s weary end, the world upside down, walls that will not mend.”
Mr. Croo
khorn said, “Perhaps he was referring to that period of time when the smugglers were being hunted. His world may have been ending, nothing known or certain, upside down in fact.”
“Perhaps,” Evelina said. “I have looked at all of them again and again, but I cannot really make sense of them, except the one that begins with ‘Devil's Gate,’ which would again support the long-held tradition that the treasure is buried somewhere on Blacklands.”
“You refer to this riddle,” Miss Rewell said. “‘The Devil’s Gate wat opens, black the land will be, down a path, a treasure ye will see.” She sighed, “I wonder what is in the treasure?”
Mr. Fuller touched the riddle on the east side of the map. “Perhaps this is a clue. ‘Cross the stones, cross one to dare, pearl and gold within, small and rare.’ Pearls and gold perhaps.”
“Oh,” she murmured, sounding disappointed. “I was hoping for rubies and diamonds and emeralds.”
“What a sapskull you are,” her brother said.
Evelina tapped the riddle to the southwest. “‘Ye olde well, draws water deep, of ale and mead, made honey-sweet.’ Would anyone know if there is a well, or used to be a well, on the southwest portion of Rotherstone’s property?”
No one had an answer for her.
Lady Monceaux said, “But this last one, here,” she pointed to the northwest, “I believe may refer to a graveyard. ‘Some stones flat, others tall, a bridge in death, to any wat fall.’”
“That is ridiculous,” Sir Alfred said, directing a scathing look at his wife. “I believe it refers to a bridge. You may fall from a bridge, for instance, and perish. You could hardly be hurt falling from a gravestone.”
“I was venturing an opinion only,” his wife said.
Sir Alfred whispered, “It might be best to keep your opinions to yourself.”
Lady Monceaux again said nothing, and Evelina wished she could reprove Sir Alfred for his unkindness. However, nothing could be gained by doing so in the midst of a large group of people, so she asked for more ideas concerning the possible meanings to any of the riddles.
What evolved from this was a lengthy debate, but in the end nothing was decided as to a final meaning for them except the one making very specific reference to “black” and “land.”
“It is no wonder,” Sir Alfred ventured after a time, “that you were so adamant about involving Rotherstone. If this map is authentic, there simply cannot be another opinion as to where the treasure is buried. Each of our estates is clearly marked.” Using his finger, he gestured first to Rotherstone’s home. “Blacklands, of course, and here is my home, Pashley Court, and in the northeast, Slyes Manor,” at which time he nodded to Mr. Crookhorn. “Carfax’s estate, Darwell Lodge, is here south of Blacklands, and to the west, Fuller’s Ewehurst Manor. And of course, marching along the westerly borders of Blacklands is Wildings. All the major streams, as well as the River Rother, are marked, and I must say, if the treasure was not to be found on Blacklands, then I would be greatly shocked indeed. Everything seems so clearly marked and recognizable.”
“Just so,” Evelina said, “which is why one of you must take this obligation on yourself to seek an audience with Lord Rotherstone and somehow gain his cooperation.”
The excitement of the group abated like a hot-air balloon deflating all at once. Mary Ambers returned to her seat not far from the table. Mrs. Huggett followed suit. Annabelle Rewell also sat down, though her brother moved to stare out the window. Sir Alfred cleared his throat and slung his hands behind his back, his brow marred by a deep furrow. His wife continued to peer at the map, as did George Fuller and James Crookhorn. Colonel Carfax seemed most affected and began marching to and fro from the window to the table and back again.
Evelina glanced from one unhappy visage to the next and found herself somewhat appalled. “How can one man have treated you all so badly, and without the smallest consequence to himself?”
“Except that he is invited nowhere,” Mrs. Rewell said, glancing at Evelina and sighing in her melancholy manner. “For some that is a very great consequence.”
Evelina took up her seat near the fireplace, her thoughts fixed on a man she had never met. She could not imagine what had happened in the course of Rotherstone’s life that he would so completely have exiled himself from all good society. Rumors among the tradesmen in Maybridge indicated that he was working very hard to restore Blacklands to its original fine, elegant condition, a telling circumstance in its own right. Evelina believed it spoke well of him that he should be conscientious where his property was concerned.
However, even Sir Alfred said he thought it all a hum. Nothing known of Rotherstone’s character indicated to the smallest degree that he would have integrity toward his inheritance. Why would a man who treated his neighbors so abominably have the smallest capacity to be a proper husbandman of his lands? Had he not ejected two families from their farms? Was he not a gamester?
Her own brother, the Earl of Chelwood, was of a similar ilk, as had been her father in his time, neither giving a fig for what had at one time been a splendid estate until all that was left was but a shell of a house. Even much of the furnishings had been sold off to pay gaming debts. Mrs. Huggett said, “I think it a good thing he does not go about in society. I heard recently from Mr. Fuller that he is known to take frequent trips to London in order visit the East End gaming establishments.”
Evelina knew perfectly well the meaning of Mrs. Huggett’s statement. The places she spoke of were known in more vulgar usage as the East End Hells. Both her father and Robert were known to have lost much of the family’s fortune there.
“Is this true, Mr. Fuller?” she inquired.
Mr. Fuller turned toward her. “I fear it is well known he enjoys gaming more than most.”
Evelina repressed a heavy sigh. Because of her father and brother, she knew only too well how insular the habit of gaming caused a man, or even a woman, to become. If it was true that Rotherstone was just such a man, then she believed she understood why his neighbors had grown to dislike him so very much. He had no interests but his own at heart and probably never would.
Already if seemed to her that in every sense Lord Rotherstone was going to be difficult.
Her thoughts were drawn quite naturally to the stranger who had found her trespassing last night and who had kissed her. Although he had been a quite determined gentleman, stubborn in his way, he had also proved himself to be a kind, thoughtful person. He could have parted company with them at the fallen log. Instead, he had carried William on his shoulder as though he had been a bag of feathers instead of a sturdy lad of seven, escorting them both back to Devil’s Gate. She admitted to herself that she had liked this man very much. She had even approved of him, which made her wonder just how a man she thought well of could also be a friend to Rotherstone. Regardless, she truly wished that she might have an opportunity to know him better.
“I was given to understand,” she said, once more addressing the company, “that Lord Rotherstone presently has a guest at his house. Does anyone perchance know his name?”
“A guest?” Lady Monceaux queried, raising herself up right from the map. “I had not heard that anyone had come recently to Blacklands.”
”Nor I,” Mrs. Rewell said. “Although I learned yesterday from the baker that Sir Edgar Graffham would be joining him quite soon but was not expected for a day or so.”
“Sir Edgar is coming to Blacklands?” Miss Ambers queried.
So Rotherstone was to have a guest. Evelina realized that Sir Edgar Graffham must have arrived earlier than expected, something that would not at all be unusual. Surely he was the gentleman she had kissed last night.
She turned to Miss Ambers and was surprised to see that her complexion had paled a trifle. “Are you acquainted with him?” she asked.
“A little,” she responded.
Evelina chanced to glance about the party and saw that more than one countenance had grown uneasy. She wondered if Miss Ambers was perhaps a little b
etter acquainted with Sir Edgar than what she had indicated.
So many questions, she thought, even about Sir Edgar. The sense that she had just stumbled into a quagmire took hold of her. Well, Sir Edgar would not have been the first gentleman to end an attachment. How that should affect her now, she was not certain. What she did know was that she still wished very much to see him again.
Her heart fluttered suddenly in her breast. Whatever his former connection to Miss Ambers, last night he had kissed a Miss Smith. Sir Edgar Graffham. How wonderful it was to have a name to attach to such a handsome countenance, to so resonant a voice and to so sweet a pair of lips.
She gave herself a quick mental shake. It would hardly do to be exposing the true nature of her feelings to any of her neighbors. After all, Sir Edgar had kissed her, nothing more, and it was likely that his association with Rotherstone would make it impossible for her to see him during the remainder of his visit. Unless . . .
There was before her a perfect way to insinuate herself into Rotherstone’s house, and she concocted her plan swiftly. Oh dear, when was it she had become so conniving?
“I suppose there is nothing for it,” she stated, her heart now beating strongly in her breast. “I must call upon Rotherstone myself.” How audacious. She could not credit she was being so very brazen, and that with no one the wiser as to her true motives. As much as she would like to see the map’s secrets revealed, in this moment she was thinking only of meeting Sir Edgar again.
All eyes were now turned upon her, and given the guilt of her thoughts she felt a blush climb her cheeks. Knowing that she would soon reveal herself if she did not divert this unwelcome attention, she rose to her feet and crossed swiftly to the map. “After all, do but look at this map. It is old and crumbling, and therefore it must be genuine. It gives a precise location to the buried treasure. Who could fail to be intrigued by such possibilities?”
Several of her neighbors intoned as one, “Rotherstone.”
On the following morning, just past ten o’clock, Evelina stood in the doorway of Rotherstone’s drawing room and glanced about. She was stunned at the sight before her. Because of all that her neighbors had said about Rotherstone, she had imagined that his house would reflect his unhappy, ungenerous character. At the very least, she expected austerity and meanness in the nature of the décor, or perhaps no furnishings whatsoever given his purported addiction to gaming. Instead, she did not know when she had been in so rich and warm a chamber.
