A Mysterious Season

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “That’s very helpful,” I said with a dangerous smile. He smiled back, and there was intimacy in that smile and a promise of something delightful yet to come.

  “Stop staring at your husband, Julia,” my sister instructed. “You’ve gone pink as a virgin and it’s unseemly.”

  Plum spluttered into his whisky, but Brisbane remained unperturbed.

  Portia turned back to me. “And you never answered Plum’s question. How did you manage to forget Jack?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. If I knew why I did it, I could stop. But it just happens. I will take him out for some air and then start wool-gathering about something. Before I know it, I’m somewhere entirely new and he’s nowhere to be found.”

  “Thank God for Morag,” Plum said fervently.

  “Yes, thank God for Morag,” I echoed, my voice tight. The fact that my lady’s maid had taken it upon herself to act as nanny to the child was both a godsend and the rankest betrayal. She had served me faithfully for five years, and while I would cheerfully have cut her throat a dozen times a day, I had taken her defection badly. But it had been love at first sight between Morag and the baby, and I did not have the heart to keep her from him. From the day Brisbane and I had agreed to bring up the child as our own, Morag had been there, coddling and crooning, securing the best wet nurse and jealously guarding her Little Jack as she insisted upon calling him. My only consolation was that it meant her incessant mooning over Brisbane was a thing of the past. She had transferred her affections to his tiny half-brother, the child Brisbane and I had brought into our house after we could make none of our own.

  “Morag as devoted watchdog,” Portia said in a state of wonder. “It still doesn’t quite bear thinking about. What a journey she has had. Whitechapel prostitute to lady’s maid to the daughter of an earl, and now nanny to the little foundling.” My lips tightened and Portia flapped a hand. “Don’t pull a face, darling. I call Jane the Younger the same. Who would have guessed it? That we two should become mothers to other women’s children?”

  “Who indeed?” I said. I put on a deliberately cheerful face. “Now, who is ready for dinner? I think the banana sandwiches must be ready by now.”

  * * *

  After a better supper than I had expected—chops and vegetables with an excellent soup, passable pudding and no bananas to speak of—we repaired to the only room in the house besides the cellars that had not yet suffered from the invasion of the builders in search of dry rot. Brisbane’s study was my favourite room, perhaps in all the world. It reflected the man and his travels and the life he had led before me. I think I began to fall in love with him in that room, and it never failed to take me back to those first heady days when he was enigmatic and implacable, observing everything with witch-black eyes that gave nothing away. We had just settled in with small cups of Turkish coffee and water pipes full of apple-scented tobacco when our butler, Aquinas, appeared.

  “There is a caller, my lady, sir,” he said, proffering a card to Brisbane. “He apologises for the hour.”

  I poured out a cup of the thick black sludge that Brisbane preferred and handed it to my brother. He took a sip and pulled a face.

  “I will never get used to this,” Plum protested. “It’s like drinking tar.”

  “Peasant,” Portia said sweetly. “It takes a sophisticated man to appreciate other cultures.” As Brisbane was easily the most travelled—and the only one of us with any claim to mixed blood—Portia’s comment was nothing more than good-natured raillery, and Brisbane took it as such. He lifted his cup to her in silent salute.

  I nodded towards the small creamy card in his hand. “Who is it, dearest?”

  He shrugged and handed it over. “No one I’ve ever met. A solicitor, and one that keeps damnably strange hours.”

  I looked to Aquinas. “Show him up, please.”

  Plum settled his cup into the saucer. “Shall Portia and I go then?”

  “Why?” our sister demanded, relaxing further into the cushions of the sofa. “I quite like it here, and besides, strange solicitors showing up at odd hours speaks to an intrigue. I’d love a good intrigue.”

  Brisbane and I exchanged smiles. There was no possibility of shifting Portia once she became interested in a subject, and Plum was technically a member of the enquiry agency. Besides, living in the bosom of a large family meant keeping precious few secrets. Whatever the business this solicitor had with us, I would no doubt confide it to them in the end.

  In a very few moments the creaking of the stairs signalled his approach. Aquinas opened the door and announced him, but almost before he finished saying the name, the fellow was upon us. He was middling in height and portly with a ruddy complexion and well-trimmed whiskers of the faded ginger hue that comes when redheaded men begin to age badly. He was well-upholstered in an expensive suit and carried a small case of dull green morocco.

  “Thank you for seeing me so quickly, sir, and I do apologise for both the lateness of the hour and the intrusion upon your guests,” he added with a glance towards the rest of us. There was something faintly off in his expression as he looked at us, as if he smelt something not entirely pleasant.

  “Not at all,” Brisbane countered. “My wife, Lady Julia Brisbane. Her sister, Lady Bettiscombe, and their brother, Mr. Eglamour March. And you are Mr. Sanderson of the firm of Sanderson and Weevel, I believe?” he added with a nod to the card.

  “I am indeed, sir.” He inclined his head towards the rest of us in turn. “My lady, my lady, Mr. March.” He turned back to Brisbane. “The matter I have come to discuss is somewhat confidential in nature,” he began.

  Brisbane waved a hand. “I have no secrets from my wife, and I have been married long enough to know better than to believe she has any from her family. Please, be seated, Mr. Sanderson and state your business freely.”

  Still looking doubtful, Mr. Sanderson took the chair Brisbane indicated. He looked from his left, where I sat on a hassock, to his other side, where Portia occupied one end of the sofa. I lifted the pot of Turkish coffee. “Coffee, Mr. Sanderson?”

  He started a little at the sound of my voice and darted me an odd glance, sliding his eyes away from me and back to my husband. “How very kind. Erm, no, thank you, my lady.”

  He cleared his throat. “Now, Mr. Brisbane, as I say this is confidential, and perhaps it would be best—”

  I took up a plate of rose water biscuits. “Biscuit?” I asked sweetly, shoving the plate under his nose.

  He flinched a little. “No, thank you, my lady.” His tone was firmer this time, and I flicked a glance to my sister.

  She did not disappoint. She took a cushion from the sofa and thrust it at him. “Cushion, Mr. Sanderson? That chair is frightfully uncomfortable.”

  He put up his hands as if to ward her off. “I am quite comfortable, my lady. Thank you.”

  Plum, who had no notion why we were tormenting the fellow but was always ready for a bit of mischief, picked up the closest water pipe. “We were just about to light the hookah, Mr. Sanderson. Would you care for a smoke?”

  “No, no, thank you,” the solicitor said, fending him off. “I wish to speak with Mr. Brisbane about a matter of some importance,” he said tightly.

  “My wife and her family are nothing if not hospitable towards guests,” Brisbane said, giving me a fond look. “You were saying, Mr. Sanderson?”

  The solicitor darted glances at my siblings and I as if to reassure himself that we did not intend to molest him with further courtesies. He fished in his morocco case and drew out a slender document that bore the hallmarks of a legal decree.

  “This is the last will and testament of Josiah Thornhill of Thorncross Manor in Narrow Wibberley in Berkshire” he began. “The gentleman was a solitary soul—some might call him a recluse. He lived in this house for the whole of his life and never married. Whe
n he passed, it was discovered that he left no heirs, and it was believed, no will. But this document has been found and authenticated, and in it he makes clear his wish that you should be the beneficiary of his estate.”

  “Me?” Brisbane put out his hand for the document. He skimmed it swiftly, his silky black brows knit together as he read. “I have never met a Josiah Thornhill. Nor have I ever visited Thorncross or Narrow Wibberley. Are you certain you have the right man?”

  “Quite.” The syllable was clipped and emphatic, and Mr. Sanderson seemed to relax now that he had been allowed to get on with the business at hand. “As Mr. Thornhill states in his will, he felt indebted to you for the professional courtesies you rendered a lady to whom he was much attached.”

  “What lady?” Brisbane asked.

  The ginger whiskers looked affronted. “I am not at liberty to divulge that information, not least of which because I do not possess it. Mr. Thornhill was most discreet upon the point.”

  “Perhaps the lady he loved was already married to another and that’s why he never married,” Portia put in.

  Mr. Sanderson flinched again. “I should not like to speculate,” he said stiffly. He gave a sharp nod to the page in Brisbane’s hand. “You will see, sir, that the deed to Thorncross is yours, free and clear. It is a fine country property within easy reach of the City, beautifully situated off a tributary of the Thames. I am assured it is in excellent condition, a splendid little estate for a gentleman eager to escape the confines of the City,” he added smoothly.

  Brisbane gave him a dangerously bland smile. “What is the catch?”

  Mr. Sanderson blinked. “Catch, sir?”

  Brisbane steepled his fingers, resting the tips of them beneath his chin. His gaze was speculative. “In my experience, gentlemen do not simply give other gentlemen houses, no matter how grateful. Did he do this to thwart another potential heir? Will I find myself dragged into court to litigate the rightful ownership of this place?”

  “Certainly not!” Mr. Sanderson seemed deeply affronted by the notion. “Of course,” he went on, smoothing his waistcoat over his stomach, “there is the most trifling of conditions with the bequest.”

  Brisbane’s smile deepened to something positively wolfish. “Go on.”

  Mr. Sanderson cleared his throat. “Well, it’s nothing to speak of, nothing at all, really. Mr. Thornhill was naturally very fond of his home, and he wished that the new owner—namely you, Mr. Brisbane—would live in it, at least for part of the year. His will specifically states that in order to retain ownership, you must establish residence in the house for four periods each year upon the traditional dates when the rents are paid.”

  “Four periods each year?” Brisbane asked.

  Mr. Sanderson hastened to reassure him. “They are not lengthy periods, sir. A fortnight only at each of the customary rent days. It has always been the custom at Thorncross for the master to accept the rents.”

  Plum perked up. “Brisbane, you’ll be a feudal landlord.”

  “Rents are due on quarter days,” I said, thinking aloud. “Michaelmas was last month, so we would not have to take possession until Christmas. That would give us two months to make arrangements.”

  Mr. Sanderson coughed gently. “It is the tradition in other places for rents to be paid upon quarter days,” he corrected. “It has always been the way at Thorncross for the rents to be paid upon cross-quarter days. In the old parlance, Candlemas in February, May Day, Lammas in August, and All Hallow’s Eve.”

  “All Hallow’s Eve! That’s in two days,” I protested.

  Mr. Sanderson gave me a lugubrious nod. “Indeed, my lady. Now you will understand my haste this evening. I am afraid the papers pertaining to this bequest were mislaid for a few days, and when they were unearthed, I discovered that Mr. Brisbane was in grave danger of losing his bequest unless he travels down to Thorncross at once.”

  “And what happens if I lose the bequest?” Brisbane inquired. “What if I refuse to go?”

  Mr. Sanderson blanched. “Unthinkable,” he said hoarsely.

  “Let us think about it anyway,” Brisbane prodded. “What would become of Thorncross?”

  Mr. Sanderson tugged at his collar. “It would be torn down.”

  “Torn down! Are you quite certain?” I asked.

  “I am afraid so, my lady,” he assured me. “Mr. Thornhill was quite specific upon the point. If Mr. Brisbane will not be master of Thorncross, no man shall.”

  * * *

  Mr. Sanderson departed some short time later, still visibly shaken by his errand, but looking much happier now that he had accomplished his business. Brisbane walked with him to the door, then closed it behind him, turning to face the three of us with a curious expression, very like a schoolmaster addressing rebellious pupils.

  “All right, you lot. Why were you tormenting that fellow?”

  Plum shrugged and pointed to Portia and myself. “Because they were, and it looked like fun. But I’ve no idea why they took against him.”

  Portia spread her hands. “Ask Julia. She’s the one who disliked him the moment he came in. I merely abetted her.”

  Brisbane lifted a brow at me, and I raised my chin in defiance. “He tried to get rid of us. It was rude. It was for you to say if your business was to be shared with us, and no man has the right to turn me out of my own rooms. If it was so dreadfully important and secret, he ought to have summoned you to his chambers.”

  Brisbane nodded slowly. “Quite right. So why didn’t he?”

  I blinked. “You agree with me?”

  Brisbane resumed his chair, stretching out his long legs towards the fire. “Entirely. I had no intention of seeing him alone since he came to our home. Private business ought to be conducted in a solicitor’s chambers. So why didn’t he summon me there? Or write ahead to request an appointment? Instead he calls after dinner when he had every expectation we might be entertaining, behaving furtively and giving us that ridiculous story of a legacy from a grateful client.”

  “You don’t believe it then?” Portia asked.

  Brisbane ignored her and cocked his head at me. “Do you?”

  I thought a moment. “No. Although I can’t imagine why. It seems plausible enough. But everything about the man was just slightly off somehow. Call it intuition, but I don’t believe him.”

  “Neither do I,” he said firmly.

  “You’re a damnably suspicious pair,” Plum said, helping himself to a rose water biscuit. “It is possible that some generous old fellow was sincerely grateful for your aid, Brisbane. You have rescued any number of perilous situations from disaster.”

  “Yes, but I am more often responsible for putting people in gaol than keeping them out of it,” Brisbane retorted.

  “Can you think of a case where you might have earned the gratitude of a lady?” Portia asked.

  “That’s the crux of it,” Brisbane responded thoughtfully. “It might be any case. It’s far too vague to indicate any particular investigation. Did I restore a family treasure? Return a cache of stolen love letters? Destroy a purloined photograph? And it might have been any time in the past twenty years. That’s rather a lot of ground to cover.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “How many women do you suppose are gadding about with good reason to feel indebted to you?”

  He assumed an expression of innocence. “Just in London or on the Continent, as well?”

  I tossed a cushion at him which he caught neatly and slipped behind his head. “No, there’s no way of knowing which case, which lady. It’s all too vague.”

  “Deliberately so,” I added.

  “Piffle,” Plum put in. “You’re just too cynical, the pair of you. You are looking a very generous gift horse in the mouth, if you ask me.”

  “In my experience,” Brisbane said seriously, “
gift horses are usually the ones with the most dangerous bite.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next two days passed in the twin pursuits of anticipation and preparation as we readied ourselves to travel to Thorncross. Garments and books were flung into trunks with little regard for system; cases were packed and unpacked in white-lipped fury as it became clear that vital items had gone missing only to be unearthed in unlikely spots. I found my best evening slippers in the dumbwaiter while Morag ran Little Jack’s favourite stuffed rabbit to ground in the coal scuttle. He was brushed off and returned to his master, a little the worse for wear, but by that point I had lost all patience with domestic irregularity. Aquinas had left for a long-overdue holiday, and as a result, our pets were in an uproar, the baby shrieked his head off from morning to night from the appalling noises in the cellars, and my newest lady’s maid had quit without notice.

  “I have to go to my sister. In Middleham,” she said sulkily as she carried her bag down the stairs.

  “You are an only child,” I reminded her coldly. “And you are not from Yorkshire. You’re a Cockney.”

  She had the grace to look guilty. “I’ll not be talked around, my lady. This house is Bedlam, and make no mistake.” The front door banged behind her, and I turned to Brisbane.

  “It’s because we let Aquinas take a holiday,” I told him with dark certainty. “Butlers should never be given holidays because everything falls to pieces.”

  He put his hands on my shoulders. “Aquinas has not had a holiday in nearly a decade. He was due. Now, we shall be gone tomorrow, putting all of the noise and mess behind us. Morag has the charge of Little Jack. We will find you a new maid, and the country air will restore all of our tempers.”

  I slanted him a suspicious look. “I suppose. But I still don’t like it. Not after—” I broke off. We did not often speak of Brisbane’s ability, but his flashes of precognition were alarmingly accurate. He had wakened me in the middle of the night, thrashing in his sleep, murmuring of portents and danger, chasing after something that threatened his peace. I had touched his shoulder to waken him and the nightmare fled. It was the first nightmare I had known him to have during our marriage, and it left him pale and a little unwell, a migraine hovering on the edge of his consciousness. He wore his shaded spectacles, his only concession to the malady. He would not ask for his own sake, but I knew the trip to the country was important to him. For all his love of London and his insistence upon living in the city, he was still half a Gypsy; his blood cried out for open spaces and fresh air in a way that a city-born man’s would never do, I sometimes fancied.