The Colour of Mermaids
Page 27
“The door was wide open!” Raf repeated, still beaming. He gave a very polite nod of greeting. “I’m a day early but there wasn’t a reply from Dr. James’ rooms so I thought I’d give his deputy a try instead!”
The bolt was fastened, Cecily remembered, a chill running through her again.
“Graham— Mr. Culpeck, the deputy headmaster, is with Dr. James.” Harriet rose to her feet and quickly swept the curtains open, flooding the sitting room with welcome light. There was a giggle in her voice, an obvious note of excitement at this new arrival who seemed so untypical of the men of Whitmore Hall. “This is Mrs. James. Cecily—Mrs. Headmaster!”
Cecily rose from the table and, with a confidence she didn’t feel, approached the new arrival. “How do you do, Mr. de Chastelaine? Have you traveled far? We are rather tucked away in our corner of Exmoor—I trust you did not have too many difficulties finding your way here.”
“All the way from the Yorkshire coast,” he admitted, though he didn’t sound like any Yorkshireman Cecily had heard before. “By way of Romania, in case you were wondering if this is a typical Yorkshire accent!”
“Romania?” No White Russian emigré, then. “My goodness, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting someone from your country before. You are very welcome here in Devon, Mr. de Chastelaine.”
“I’ve been wandering around the grounds,” he admitted in a conspiratorial whisper, as though it was quite the shocking confession. “It’s a beautiful place.”
“Mrs. James was born here.” Harriet beamed. “Tea, Mr. de Chastelaine?”
He to/pok a battered silver pocket watch from the pocket of the rather rumpled tweed jacket he wore and opened the case with a flick of his thumbnail. “I wouldn’t want to hold you ladies up.”
Cecily glanced at her watch. “We have twenty minutes.”
“Mrs. James is a marvel in the gardens.” Harriet smiled and Cecily couldn’t help but return it, because she knew her friend well enough to recognize the embarrassment in her bluster. She had been caught in her séance by this newcomer, and she felt rather silly about it. “Cecily, dearest, why don’t you show Mr. de Chastelaine the grounds before he meets the headmaster?”
Cecily’s heart blanched at the very thought of it, the idea that she would stroll alone at dusk with a man, any man. She had been punished for far less over the years.
“I can show you from the window, if you’d like. There’s something rather special for you to see, actually.”
Maybe Mr. de Chastelaine would be interested in what Cecily had spotted, even if her husband had not been. Yet Harriet wasn’t about to let the matter drop so easily and suggested, “Oh, you can’t see anything at twilight! Take Mr. de Chastelaine to see the gardens, Cecily.” Then she patted Cecily’s arm. “They never end their meetings early. Nobody need know.”
Something in Harriet’s voice implied, I won’t tell. But someone else might if they saw Cecily and the substitute teacher through the school’s many windows.
“If you should like to see the grounds quickly, then I have no objection in showing you, sir.”
“Really, call me Raf,” he told her. “And I’d love to see the grounds with you. Don’t tell, ladies, but gardening’s what I do these days. Gardening and enough Latin to help a mate in need!”
Nerves. That’s what Hugh had said was wrong with Mr. Brennan when he went off in his father’s car, whiter than anyone Cecily had ever seen in her life. It’s always nerves. Mr. Brennan had nerves, she had nerves. Nerves were for weak people, Hugh always said.
Where on earth did the bookish Latin teacher meet this man, though? They hardly seemed to be from the same planet, let alone be mates.
“This way please, Mr. de…Raf.” Cecily gestured toward the door. Over her shoulder, she said, “Thank you, Harriet. That was certainly…interesting. Oh, I nearly forgot my knitting bag!”
Cecily’s emergency excuse sat behind the sofa, and she hurried to pick it up, the ring still clutched in her other hand.
“Never break the circle,” Raf told Harriet with a very mischievous wink indeed. Not the sort of wink that one saw in a school intended to turn out middling cabinet ministers and respectable bastions of the civil service. In reply, Harriet giggled and held her hand to her lips like the girl she had once been. Her giggles grew a little sillier when Raf added, “You never know who might be knocking about.”
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About the Authors
Catherine Curzon
Catherine Curzon is a royal historian who writes on all matters of 18th century. Her work has been featured on many platforms and Catherine has also spoken at various venues including the Royal Pavilion, Brighton, and Dr Johnson’s House.
Catherine holds a Master’s degree in Film and when not dodging the furies of the guillotine, writes fiction set deep in the underbelly of Georgian London.
She lives in Yorkshire atop a ludicrously steep hill.
Eleanor Harkstead
Eleanor Harkstead often dashes about in nineteenth-century costume, in bonnet or cravat as the mood takes her. She can occasionally be found wandering old graveyards, and is especially fond of the ones in Edinburgh. Eleanor is very fond of chocolate, wine, tweed waistcoats and nice pens. She has a large collection of vintage hats, and once played guitar in a band. Originally from the south-east, Eleanor now lives somewhere in the Midlands with a large ginger cat who resembles a Viking.
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Catherine and Eleanor love to hear from readers. You can find their contact information, website and author biographies at https://www.totallybound.com.