by A W Hartoin
“I don’t know. I heard the Viscount was in a terrible accident and barely survived. Beyond that, I have no idea. He’s probably still in the hospital.”
Stella and Nicky shared a glance. Mr. Rhodes knew nothing. An accident. Right.
“How do you know the Viscount?” asked Mr. Rhodes. “I believe he lives abroad.”
“We met in Vienna,” said Nicky, but he didn’t elaborate.
“Vienna. What a lovely city.”
“It was,” said Stella. “I’m sure.”
Mr. Rhodes frowned and started to say something, but the chauffeur said, “Ten minutes.”
He turned the car onto a narrow lane, driving through a large, ornate gate and into a dense wood, emerging at a lake. The chauffeur slowed as they drove onto a stone bridge passing a couple of men with rakes on their shoulders and a maid in uniform on a bicycle. They all waved and smiled, so friendly and open. Stella found herself waving back, although she had to fake her smile.
“There we are,” said Mr. Rhodes.
“Oh.” Stella sat up. Across the lake was the grandest house she’d ever seen outside of Versailles or Fontainebleau. It was a wide expanse of dark stone with square turrets and windows galore. Jane Austin might’ve said it was perfectly picturesque. She only hoped it had a library equal to the view.
“The British call this a country pile,” said Mr. Rhodes. “Looks like a pile of money to me.”
Stella had been born in one mansion and grown up in another, but they were nothing in comparison. “This is a house?” she asked.
“Typical British sense of humor,” said Rhodes. “What do you say, Thompson?”
“I quite agree,” said the chauffeur shortly.
“When was it built?” asked Nicky.
“I don’t know, but the family is an old one.”
Stella stared at the beauty of the building and swans gliding across the semi-frozen lake. She’d forgotten such serenity existed. Her world had become small and full of the fire Bast mentioned. She sighed and sat back, feeling the fire recede like the light behind Bickford House.
Nicky reached for her and took her hand, like he hadn’t in days. “It’s like a palace.”
Thompson surprised them by saying, “It had a queen, some would say.”
“A queen?” asked Mr. Rhodes. “Which one?”
“Not a real queen. She was only thought of that way. Cecily Moore, Countess of Bickford. This is her house.” The chilly chauffeur thawed under questioning as he drove off the bridge and down the long drive toward the back of the house. “She began building it after her first husband died and finished it while she was married to her second husband. He became the first Earl of Bickford. You can see her initials at the top.”
They all craned their necks to see the initials done in stone on each rooftop. Stella smiled. Cecily wasn’t shy. She wanted everyone to know this was her house.
“How do you know so much about the countess?” she asked.
“I grew up in the village. Lady Bickford was a source of pride. She was quite a woman. She and Bess of Hardwick vied for the title of wealthiest woman in Britain behind Queen Elizabeth, naturally.”
Mr. Rhodes said something inane about how it must have been her husband’s money and Thompson replied that the Bickfords had a talent for marrying well, which Rhodes misunderstood completely, and Stella stopped listening. She looked out at the gardens. They went on as far as the eye could see and appeared to have different influences. Some sections formal like the French and others more robust like the English.
The car turned to the back of the house and then into a main courtyard completely done in stone with an elaborate zigzagging staircase coming down from an enormous arched door. The courtyard was covered in more windows and Stella had the feeling they were being watched from every one.
Thompson glanced back at Stella. “Have you heard the rhyme about Bess of Hardwick’s house?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Hardwick Hall more glass than wall.”
She smiled, feeling the fire recede further. “That would fit this house, too.”
“The ladies competed for the most glass,” he said, stopping the car at the foot of the stairs.
“Who won?” asked Nicky.
“It depends on who you ask.”
Thompson got out and opened Stella’s door, helping her before going over to assist Nicky. He’d gotten stiff on the drive and had to be pulled upright. While the men discussed Nicky’s wound, which was healing well, Stella took a good look at the dark and quiet courtyard. She began to wonder if anyone was home. But just as that thought crossed her mind, the big doors opened and servants began coming out. Four men in dark suits went to the left stair and four women in plain but fashionable dresses with white aprons went to the right. They took their places, each on a stair, and then an older man and woman came out. He was much more formal in a suit that looked like a tux and the woman wore a dress with many pin tucks but no apron. They stood on either side of the door, stiff and decidedly unfriendly.
Nicky came to Stella’s side while Thompson opened the trunk.
“What do we do?” asked Stella.
“I have no idea,” said Nicky.
Thompson leaned around the trunk and gave them their first smile. “Give them a minute. This is how they do it.”
“Do it?” asked Stella.
“Receive guests.”
She didn’t know what to say to that and she didn’t need to say anything because just then a woman came out. She was dressed in a kind of hunting outfit in tweed with trousers. Instead of being stiff, she smiled and waved. “There you are! The wait has been interminable.” She rushed down the stairs, which was impressive considering her substantial bulk. Once she’d cleared the servants, they followed her down the stairs at a dignified pace.
“Lady Bickford,” whispered Thompson, setting down one of Stella’s hatboxes.
She came at them with hands out. “I’m so pleased to see you here and all in one piece, too. I’m Agatha Bickford. Please call me Aggie.”
They shook hands and Stella had to blink back tears of relief. Aggie radiated motherliness, but Stella found it hard to believe that she was Albert’s mother. It would’ve taken three of Albert to make one of Aggie.
“I’m Nicky Lawrence and this is my wife, Stella Bled Lawrence,” said Nicky, slightly taken aback at Aggie’s friendliness.
Aggie shook his hand and kissed his cheek and then hugged Stella fiercely. “Thank goodness you’re here. Your mother has been worried sick.”
“Mother?” asked Stella. “You know each other?”
“We do now,” said Aggie and she turned to Thompson. “And there you are. My favorite bad penny.”
She hugged Thompson and gave him kisses on both cheeks before introducing her staff. There were so many names, Stella didn’t try to absorb them.
“John, William, please see to the luggage,” commanded Aggie before turning to Stella. “Let’s go inside. You must be exhausted. So thin. Were you ill on the crossing?”
Aggie pelted her with questions as they went up the stairs, her arm around Stella’s waist. “Smith?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am,” said the butler.
“Please send a telegram to Mrs. Bled informing her that Stella and Nicky have arrived safely.”
“Yes, ma’am. Right away,” he said.
They went through the doors and Stella nearly gasped. The hall was enormous and three tall stories high with tapestries, fireplaces, and dark woodwork covering every surface. And the artwork. Her father would be thrilled. There was a Velázquez in the corner. Two Gainsboroughs and a Sargent. Florence would like that.
Aggie squeezed her arm. “It is impressive, isn’t it? Better than Hardwick, if I do say so myself. The earl will be down for dinner. You must go rest and change. Mrs. Hart will take you to your room.”
Their hostess bustled away saying she had to change as she had been hunting in the park. Mrs. Hart smil
ed and led them to the stairs, a masterpiece that curved around the hall and seemed to be supported by nothing.
The footmen followed them to a beautiful guest room in what Mrs. Hart called the Daughter’s Wing. It had lovely dark walls and a half tester bed twice as big as any normal bed. She showed them the bathroom and a young girl brought in a tray with tea and cookies. They were to dress for dinner at eight. And then she was gone.
“I forgot to ask about Albert,” said Stella.
“I’m not surprised. It’s overwhelming,” said Nicky, beginning to strip. “You better hurry, if you’re going to take a bath.”
“I already did this morning.”
“I think I’ll have a soak then.” Nicky went for the bath and Stella washed her face. She thought about putting on her powder and rouge, but couldn’t work up the energy. Instead, she drank a cup of tea and ate several buttery cookies while picking out what to wear. She had nothing grand enough for Bickford House and settled on her green dress.
“I never would’ve thought Albert grew up in a place like this,” said Nicky sinking deeper into the bath.
“Me either,” said Stella. “His apartment was so small and simple.”
“You should’ve taken a bath. This is heaven after sitting in that car.”
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
Nicky jolted up and water splashed on the floor. “Where are you going?”
“To explore. Surely you don’t think there’s any danger here,” said Stella.
“I don’t think it’s polite to wander around uninvited.”
She rolled her eyes at him and went into the hall. It took fifteen minutes before she saw another living soul. Bickford House was like a huge empty museum and she’d just about given up hope when she ran into Smith the butler. He wasn’t thrilled to find her out and about, but he wasn’t unkind either.
“Is the viscount here?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Can I see him?”
“You will have to ask her ladyship,” said Smith. “Perhaps at dinner.”
“I don’t want to wait for dinner,” said Stella. “Is he all right?”
Smith’s stiffness relaxed a bit. “I believe the viscount is improving daily.”
“Can I see him? I need to see him.”
“I’m afraid—”
A small man in a three-piece suit with a watch chain dangling from the waistcoat pocket came around the corner and said, “That’s all right, Smith. I’ll take Mrs. Lawrence to see Albert.”
Smith nodded and left silently.
The man held out his hand. “I’m Lord Bickford, please call me George. I believe you’ve met my wife, Aggie.”
Stella took his shaking, exceedingly thin hand and said, “I have. Please call me Stella.”
“Come this way. Albert is in the library.” He led her through the house and stopped at a tall door carved with deer and pheasant. “You come with bad news, I assume.”
“I’m afraid I do.” She put a hand on his arm. “Thank you for sending Bast. We wouldn’t have made it out of Venice without him.”
“I don’t know who Bast is, but you’re welcome. I had feared that my friends had plans that diverted from my own.”
“They did.”
“But you’re here.”
“The plans came together.”
“I hope you’ll tell me all about it.” The earl opened the door and they walked into a glorious two-story library. In front of the fireplace was a large armchair with a wheelchair parked beside it. Albert looked up and smiled. “I heard you were coming. I hardly believed it.”
Stella had to swallow hard. Albert was painfully thin with dark shadows under his eyes and his arm in a cast. The bruises were fading, but he was missing several teeth and he wheezed slightly when he spoke. “Do I look that bad?”
“I’m just glad you’re alive,” said Stella, sitting in the chair across from him.
“I wasn’t sure I would be for a time, but my mother got ahold of me and here I am.” Albert smiled showing off the gaps in his teeth. Then the smile fell away. “Do you have something to tell me?”
“I do.” Stella told him what happened in Venice. She wanted to do it in private, not at some dinner table with servants all around. “Did you know the Sorkines?”
“I did. They were lovely people.” Albert wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. “Why would this SS do that? I don’t understand.”
The earl paced in front of the roaring fire and said, “I would like to know that as well.”
Stella told them what happened in Vienna, about the package, and the chase across Europe, leaving out the gorier details.
“You’ve hidden this package then?” asked the earl.
“We have.” She started to tell him what it was, but he held up a hand.
“Some things are better left unknown.”
Albert turned away, trying to hide his sorrow, and the earl went to his son, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to come to dinner tonight, Albert?”
“I don’t think so. I’d rather stay here, if you don’t mind.” Albert didn’t look at them and Stella questioned whether she should’ve told him about the Sorkines.
The earl led her out of the library and patted her back. “Don’t worry. He’s healing. It will only take time. Please don’t say anything about your uncle though.”
“My uncle?” asked Stella.
“Josiah Bled. He’s coming here from the continent. Didn’t you know?”
“I had no idea. What happened?”
Lord Bickford took her arm. “All I know is that he went to Munich, pulled every string he had, and now he’s coming here. In fact, he should’ve been here already.”
“Did he get Abel out?” Stella asked breathlessly.
“I hope so. The news out of Germany is getting worse by the day.” He stopped at the foot of the staircase. “Stella, this Bast person, what did he tell you?”
“Very little actually,” she said.
“My contacts in government have expressed an interest in you after they found out you’d evaded the SS in Vienna and Paris.”
“He told me that.”
“And…”
“He wants me to work for your government.” She didn’t say be a spy. She didn’t have to.
He pondered her for a moment. “You’re thinking about his offer?”
“No.”
He nodded, but said nothing.
“You think that’s wrong?” she asked.
“I think you are extraordinary and we will need the extraordinary very soon.”
“Everything I’ve done has hurt people.”
“You survived and did what Abel asked. That shows a loyalty and resourcefulness beyond what anyone would expect.”
“Look at what’s already happened. I didn’t tell Albert everything. The Sorkines are just the tip of the iceberg.”
He nodded and the few hairs clinging to his scalp waved at her. “That’s more true than either of us know. Now let’s have dinner and wait for the arrival of your uncle. He’s a man I’d like to meet.”
“His reputation precedes him.”
“It does indeed. Did he really get arrested with Abel in Rome while naked?”
She laughed in spite of herself. “He did.”
They went into dinner and spent the time telling stories of family and folly. Stella kept looking at her watch with a growing feeling of dread in her stomach.
Josiah never came.
Chapter Twenty-six
WHEN STELLA FINALLY allowed her eyes to open the next morning, she saw Nicky at the foot of the bed tying his tie into a full Windsor knot.
“Where are you going so early?” she asked.
“Breakfast and it’s not early. It’s already nine,” he said.
“Well, it feels early.” She sat up and yawned. “Hold on. I’ll be ready in a minute.”
He adjusted his tie and put on his jacket. “Don’t you remember? You’re having breakfa
st in bed. It’s tradition.”
“I thought that was a joke.”
“The British don’t joke about tradition.”
“What if I don’t want to?” she asked.
“I don’t think that’s an option.” Nicky came to the side of the bed and gave her a quick kiss. “Just relax and enjoy it.”
She crossed her arms. “I want to know about Uncle Josiah.”
“If there’s any news, I’ll come back up.”
“Immediately?”
“I promise.” He didn’t meet her eyes as he said it and then limped to the door suspiciously fast.
“What’s going on?” she asked as he reached for the doorknob.
“Nothing.”
Stella frowned and flipped back the covers. “That’s it. I’m coming.”
He rushed back over and forcibly tucked her back in. “All right. All right. I’m going to discuss the situation with the earl.”
“Which situation? We’ve got a few.”
“Karolina and the Sorkines. He was going to call London first thing this morning. He may have news.”
Stella settled back on her pillows. If the earl had news and hadn’t sent for them, it would be bad, and she didn’t mind waiting for that. “But if Josiah—”
“I’ll come up immediately,” he said and gave her another kiss, smiling.
A knock on the door interrupted them and Nicky went to answer it. The maid, Lizzie, stood in the hall bearing a tray. “Good morning,” she said. “Is Mrs. Lawrence awake?”
He gestured for her to come in and smiled at the maid so warmly that Stella could almost see Lizzie’s knees go weak. The rascal.
“She is,” said Nicky. “And Lizzie, make sure she stays in bed.”
Lizzie blushed and said, “Yes, sir. I will.”
He went out and Lizzie came over to set the tray on the foot of the bed before plumping Stella’s pillows and giving her the tray.
“Thank you,” said Stella. “But I don’t really understand why I can’t eat downstairs.”
“Her ladyship likes to preserve the ladies’ traditions at Bickford.”
“So it’s not a British tradition then?”
Lizzie smiled shyly and poured Stella’s coffee. “It was but not many do it anymore. Bickford has its own ways.”
