by Dara England
***
It was a tedious journey, broken only by occasional stops. At the station in Exeter they were able to procure refreshment, but there was little else to interest them and they soon continued on their way.
There was another brief stop at Plymouth and then they crossed the Tamar and entered Cornwall. The quaint little villages, walled fields, and open countryside rushing past Drucilla’s window all seemed much the same as those they had left behind.
It wasn’t until they changed trains at Penzance and then reached their final stop, the sleepy little village of Morcastle, that she was able to detect a change in the air. The breeze was fresh and carried the tang of salt, reminding her of their nearness to the ocean.
Aunt Bridget grumbled mightily because there was no one to meet them at the station. Drucilla had managed to withhold from her that their arrival was not expected and she had no intention of enlightening her now.
She spoke with the station master, who in turn directed them to a local inn where they were able to hire a pair of wagons that would carry them, the servants, and their baggage to Blackridge House.
Aunt Bridget was appalled at this arrangement. “Merciful heavens,” she moaned. “Haven’t they a more suitable conveyance?”
“They have not,” Drucilla said firmly.
When the old lady wrung her hands, Drucilla lowered her voice persuasively. “Besides, Aunt, think what an interesting experience it will be to ride about the countryside in an open cart. We shall be like a pair of rustics.”
Aunt Bridget sniffed doubtfully. “An adventure, to be sure.”
Despite this little bump in the road, Drucilla was at length able to persuade her into the first wagon and they set off. They must surely have been a peculiar sight, rumbling like a gypsy caravan with all their possessions in tow, along the rutted path away from the village.
This was hilly country and, with the rise and dip of the road, Morcastle was soon lost from view.
To Drucilla’s delight, the road soon ran parallel to the seaside and they were able to look out over the rugged cliffs to the ocean below. Even Aunt Bridget seemed impressed by the brilliant blue expanse stretched out before them. The colors of the azure sky above and the tall, waving grass along the roadside seemed somehow more vivid here.
“How far to Blackridge House?” Drucilla asked the wagon driver. He was a local man from the inn, an elderly fellow with a wild beard, a heavily lined face, and thick streaks of white in the hair spilling out from beneath his cap.
“A fair distance, young miss. A fair distance.” And that was all anyone could get out of him.
Drucilla gave up and watched the countryside roll, or rather, jounce by. The road looked as if it had suffered from a recent washout that had left it in deplorable condition, and with every rut they sank into or rock they rolled over, the wagon bounced them about. The basket containing Aunt Bridget’s precious cats was slung back and forth across the bed of the wagon until the old lady was at last obliged to wedge it firmly between her slippered feet.
Drucilla could only imagine how the servants were faring, traveling further behind them in the wagon loaded with their luggage.
As the sky began to darken and their destination remained out of sight, Drucilla grew alarmed. “See here,” she said to their driver. “Shouldn’t we be able to see the house by now?”
By way of response, he gestured silently toward the steep hill ahead. With a creaking of the harness and a noticeable strain on the part of the horse, which looked as ancient as their driver, they made their way to the crest of the hill. And there Drucilla caught her first glimpse of Blackridge House.
Chapter Five
Blackridge had been aptly named, for the manor house was a great edifice of dark stone, perched near the edge of a high cliff looking out over the ocean below. Celeste had written that the structure had been in her husband’s family since the seventeenth century and Drucilla could well believe it as she looked down at its blunt, Tudor style arches and oriel windows, upheld by elaborately carved corbels. Despite the term house, it resembled nothing so much as a small castle.
As they drew into the circular carriageway before the house, a nervous sort of anticipation welled up within Drucilla. It was all very well back in London to tell herself Celeste had invited her and Celeste’s in-laws must welcome her. But with the sinister shadow of Blackridge House looming over her, a little of her boldness seeped away. There was something about the place that made one feel insignificant by comparison, that leeched away one’s confidence.
This feeling was not lessened as they climbed out of the wagon and ascended the broad stairway. Their driver appeared thoroughly uneasy with the surroundings and even Aunt Bridget was cowed into uncharacteristic silence.
And so it was Drucilla who took the initiative. She grasped the lion’s head knocker of the great door, felt an odd shiver run through her as she touched the cool brass beneath her hand, and fleetingly wished she was back at home right now and miles away from this gloomy spot.
The moment passed and she tapped the knocker firmly against the door. Their approach must have been observed because the hollow THUNK of the knocker had no sooner sounded than one of the heavy double doors creaked open enough to reveal a round, female face peering out at them. The exotic eyes set against bronze-tinted skin were wary, suspicious, as they took Drucilla in. The strange young woman’s full, wine-colored lips formed an unwelcoming frown.
Drucilla couldn’t help but notice the girl’s exceptional beauty. Her dark hair was glossy, her face shapely, and her fingers, appearing around the door’s edge, were long and slender. She looked more like some visiting foreign princess than a woman who ought to be answering doors in a great house in Cornwall, Drucilla thought.
The young woman’s cold welcome was even more of a surprise. “Who are you and what do you want?” she demanded in a lightly accented voice. “Do you not know better than to be knocking on doors at this hour of the night, with the family just finishing dinner?”
Their driver found his tongue and stepped forward quickly. “Easy there, Mrs. Portillo. These be some fine ladies down from the big city. Friends of Lady Litchfield.” His voice was apologetic as he said to Drucilla, “This here is Mrs. Portillo, the housekeeper.”
Drucilla blinked but made an effort to conceal her surprise that such a young and attractive woman should hold such an important station within the house.
For her part, Mrs. Portillo was eying their party with new curiosity but gave no sign she was impressed with what she saw.
Drucilla forced a smile to her stiff lips. “Hello Mrs. Portillo. My name is Miss Winterbourne and this is my aunt, Lady Ashworth. We have been invited down to stay by Miss Celeste—I mean, Lady Litchfield.” It still felt strange to call her friend by the new name.
Mrs. Portillo looked incredulous. “I have no orders concerning visitors. The master never spoke a word about preparing rooms.” The tone of her voice suggested that was her final word on the matter and it occurred to Drucilla if she did not act quickly the petite woman would close the door on her.
“I am sorry you were not forewarned,” Drucilla said firmly, moving closer so the other woman would have to smash the door over her toes if she meant to close it. It was the nearest Drucilla had ever come to thrusting her foot into anyone’s door.
“Obviously there has been some mistake. But we were invited and if you will just tell Lady Litchfield we have arrived, I am sure everything will be quickly sorted out.” It was difficult to keep her gaze sincere when she was all too aware she was uttering only a half-truth.
Still, something in her look, or possibly in her dress, must have convinced the woman she was not some impoverished beggar to be sent away on a servant’s whim. The housekeeper hesitated and Drucilla seized the opportunity to press her case.
“We’ve traveled all the way from London, and as I’m sure you can imagine are thoroughly exhausted. Would you be so kind as to inform Lady Celeste
of our arrival?”
No intelligent servant would risk refusing such a plainly spoken request, not when it came from a lady with friendly connections to the mistress of the house.
Slowly, reluctantly, the door opened and Drucilla and her party were ushered into a dark and drafty hall with soaring ceiling beams.
“You may wait here,” the housekeeper said imperiously, “while I inform the family of your arrival.”
Her footsteps echoed down the hall as she departed.
“Well! I must say this is a chilly reception Celeste has arranged for us,” Aunt Bridget announced when the woman had gone. “Not even to inform the servants of our coming? What sort of household is this, where rooms are not prepared before the guests arrive? And such a housekeeper! Did you see the insolent way she looked at us, as though she would like to turn us out?”
Drucilla rubbed her forehead, where she was developing a massive headache. “Oh, do be quiet, Aunt Bridget.”
“I beg your pardon?” The old lady’s eyebrows rose.
“Nothing,” Drucilla amended. “I’m sorry, Aunt. I’m just weary from the journey and things are not going quite as smoothly as I had hoped.”
She was thinking, not for the first time, that certain people at Blackridge House might not find her arrival such a pleasant surprise.
But none of that mattered. She stiffened her spine. As long as Celeste wanted and needed her here, the rest of the household could behave just as barbarously as they pleased.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the quick tread of approaching feet. Not the housekeeper this time, but an attractive young gentleman. Around eighteen or nineteen, he appeared too young to be Celeste’s husband but perhaps he looked younger than his years? Many men did.
“Ah-ha, I see we have visitors,” he said cheerfully, as he approached. He wore a riding cloak and boots, as though about to go out.
“And judging by the looks of you,” he continued, “you’re down from the city. We don’t often get such refined company around here, you see. Mostly just the old man’s tenant farmers and the like.”
He had a quick, abrupt way of rapping out words and leaping from one subject to the next.
“Old man?” Drucilla repeated.
“The Pater, of course,” he replied. “Lord Litchfield himself.”
“His lordship is your father? Then you must be Absalom Litchfield?”
He laughed sharply. “Absalom? I only wish. No, alas I am not so blessed. That name would belong to my elder brother, the future lord of the castle and heir to the throne.”
Drucilla would ordinarily have found his sarcasm and irreverent manner of speaking distasteful. But there was a mischievous sparkle in his dark eyes that somehow made his outrageous speech forgivable.
She felt it was time for some sort of explanation as to why she and her aunt were standing in his hall.
“We’re London friends of Lady Celeste,” she informed him.
“Ah, dear Celeste. Such a jewel, isn’t she?” he mused. “The ideal mate for my perfect brother.”
“Yes, well, we haven’t seen her since before the wedding and we’re dreadfully eager to speak with her again.”
“Are you indeed?” He arched a brow and an odd series of expressions passed over his face. Amusement. Curiosity. Wariness.
Drucilla was confused. Why should he feel any of those things?
But then the moment was gone, passing so quickly she wondered if she had imagined his reaction.
“Well,” he said, “I wish you much luck. Now I must take my leave.”
“Yes, of course. Please do not let us keep you,” Drucilla said, although she found it exceedingly odd that a gentleman of the house would abandon two visiting ladies to the empty entrance hall.
But the young man wasn’t gone just yet. On his way out, he paused to stick his head back around the door. “By the way, you’ll pardon the directness of the question, but who exactly are you people?”
Drucilla flushed at his rudeness and said a trifle severely, “I am Miss Drucilla Winterbourne and this is my aunt, Lady—”
“Miss Winterbourne, you say? Never heard of you. Never mind, we shall show you an exciting time here at the old house. I’m sure you’ll find us a fascinating study.”
Before she could decide how to respond to such a peculiar statement he was gone.
“What an impertinent young man,” Aunt Bridget complained but Drucilla scarcely heard her. She was distracted by the new presence that had just entered the hall.
“Miss Winterbourne and her ah, companion, I presume?” the gentleman said. He was as tall and dark as the young man who had just exited but did not possess the same beauty. He also appeared a few years older.
Being presumed a companion was too much for Aunt Bridget, who drew herself up to her full height of nearly five feet. “I am Lady Ashworth,” she corrected icily.
“Of course,” he replied soothingly while keeping his eyes on Drucilla. “You are both very welcome here. Celeste used to speak of you in particular so often, Miss Winterbourne, that I almost feel I know you.”
He took her hand briefly.
“Lord Absalom,” she responded, taking in the details of the man who stood before her. He was fine-boned and excessively narrow in the shoulders and waist, not a particularly attractive man, but there was something striking in the planes of his face. Drucilla had been expecting someone rather rustic, as country squires were often apt to be, but this man surprised her with his polished appearance. He spoke with the charming ease of one well-versed in the trivial conversation expected of polite society. She could imagine Celeste being drawn to such a man.
He said now, “I am so glad we are able to meet at last, although I regret it must be under such tragic circumstances. You’ll find us all in disarray I’m afraid. The servants are upset and the family, well, we’re still coming to grips with it. Then there’s the usual scramble to make the burial arrangements, procure mourning accoutrements, and notify everyone who must be present for the funeral. You know how difficult these things are.”
Drucilla was mortified. “Oh dear, I had no notion we were imposing on your family at such a painful time. Had we only known, we would never have intruded. But Celeste made no mention of a death, or even an illness, in the house.”
He stared at her, as if perplexed. “But surely you must know. Is that not why you have come?”
A horrible sense of foreboding settled over her and Drucilla knew even before he spoke what his next words would be.
“Miss Winterbourne, I am sorry to tell you that my wife, Celeste, is dead.”
Chapter Six
A thousand emotional responses overwhelmed Drucilla but the one that burst from her lips was, “But that’s not possible! I had a letter from her shortly before I left London. Surely there has been some mistake?”
His expression was pained. “Believe me, I very much wish there was, Miss Winterbourne. Unfortunately, this is not a matter of uncertainty. I believe I would know whether my wife was deceased or not.”
Drucilla remained too stunned to be abashed. She managed to murmur, “Yes, of course you would. I am sorry. This news is just so…unexpected.”
“I understand,” he said, his voice laden with grief. “It has been the same for all of us here.”
She said, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how did it happen? I realize it must be difficult to speak of it.”
“No, it’s all right,” he said. “It was a tragic accident. She suffered a terrible fall. The local doctor was called in, of course, but there was nothing to be done for her. Death was instantaneous. At least we can comfort ourselves that she suffered little.”
Such a morbid thought to take comfort in. Still, her mind had recovered enough for her to recall there was a proper protocol for occasions such as this.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she murmured. “Has Celeste’s family been informed of the tragedy?”
She could not believe they had or the n
ews would have reached her ears back in London.
He shook his head sorrowfully. “The death occurred only this morning, during the early hours. I have sat down and written to Celeste’s parents, however, and the message will go out on the morning train. Once they’ve received the news, I expect they will come down as quickly as they are able. We are planning to hold the funeral in a day’s time. I dislike conducting the event without Celeste’s family present but this time of year these things cannot be put off long before…” Wincing, he trailed off.
Aunt Bridget clearly felt it her duty to rescue the conversation from the gruesome level to which it was descending.
She said, “Perhaps, all things considered, it is fortunate we are here. Drucilla and I will naturally help with the funeral preparations in any way we are able. And in the event poor Celeste’s family is unable to attend, we shall stand in the place of her London friends.”
It was the first sensible suggestion Drucilla could remember the old woman ever making.
Lord Absalom looked relieved. “We would be most grateful for that, Lady Ashworth. It is a great comfort to have cool heads present at such a difficult time.”
Aunt Bridget preened visibly.
“And now,” Lord Absalom said, “you must be tired from your journey and ready to refresh yourselves. Forgive me for keeping you standing so long. The staff has been making up your rooms and Mrs. Portillo will see you up to them. The family has already dined. We’re rather informal here and my father prefers dinner served early, but Mrs. Portillo will see that something is sent up to you on a tray. Won’t you, Mrs. Portillo?”
The cold-faced housekeeper appeared from nowhere. “Of course, Lord Absalom. If the ladies will follow me?”
“I look forward to seeing you both in the morning,” his lordship said by way of farewell.
As they were led away, Drucilla thought the man was handling the unexpected loss of his wife with admirable composure. He must be under a great deal more strain than he showed.
As the housekeeper led them through the impressively sized greater hall and up one of the twin staircases leading from it, Drucilla scarcely took in her surroundings.
Celeste was dead.
