“In all this snow?” Bridget scoffed. “Who would traipse through it?”
“That isn’t an outright denial.”
Bridget made a face, her pen still skimming across the page. “I suppose if you think someone might decide to wander through the snow to chat through an open window, there’s nothing I can do to dissuade you. Go out and search, if you like.”
Viola was certain the girl was lying, but there was nothing she could do. She turned the lock on the French window just in case, and went back to the desk. “How is the play coming along? Everyone is quite anxious to have more scenes to rehearse.”
“It’s bloody brilliant,” said Bridget with satisfaction. “Original and ridiculous and everything a farce should be. Read this.” She pushed some pages across the table.
Viola picked them up and began reading, only to catch a slight motion from the corner of her eye. Bridget had slid something beneath the blotter. Her eyes narrowed, but she kept her mouth closed. She’d got into a battle of wills with Bridget before and always ended up completely routed. There was no one here, and as Bridget had said, the snow was much too deep for anyone to have snuck into the Kingstag gardens and up to this terrace.
That said, Viola would have wagered a week’s salary that Bridget had been talking to someone through that open door.
“It does sound ridiculous,” she commented after reading the scene Bridget had given her.
The girl beamed. “Doesn’t it? And so fitting for Serena.”
Viola read again. “That she’s pursued by a swan?”
“Well, that’s what Frye is,” Bridget replied. “Handsome but cruel.”
“But Lord Gosling plays the swan, not Frye.”
“Drrr!” Bridget rolled her eyes. “Obviously I could not write a part for Frye, because he’s not here. Gosling will do just as nicely, though. I don’t care for him.”
“Because . . .” Viola couldn’t even think of a reason.
“He’s too agreeable! Whatever odd thing I write for him, he smiles and carries on. Agreeable men are so very disagreeable, don’t you think?”
She laid the pages back on the table. “If you say so . . .”
Bridget beamed again. She knew she’d won.
On the fifth day things slipped a bit further out of control. Lady Sophronia had taken over supervising the play rehearsals, with Bridget’s help when the latter wasn’t off in the library writing, and Viola was shocked to see her almost encouraging Mr. Jones, playing a pirate from Shropshire of all places, to kiss Serena, playing a maiden—or, as Bridget insisted on calling her, a Lonely Spinster. The kiss wasn’t called for in the script, although the pirate did bear away the maiden at some point, but Viola was alarmed by this. She managed to insert herself into the direction and even the acting twice, but finally Sophronia pinned a gimlet gaze on her.
“Dear Viola,” she said, “I have not seen Lord Winterton in an age. The poor man, he must be feeling very put out to arrive and have no one to look after him.”
Viola blinked. “Lady Sophronia, he’s quite comfortable. He assures me so every morning.” Viola looked forward to those brief meetings over breakfast; it was easily the most pleasant conversation she had all day. Her worries about the earl had subsided. He might not know Wessex personally, but he was clearly a gentleman and had behaved with the utmost propriety.
But he had been strolling all over the castle, and Sophronia’s words planted a seed of doubt. Perhaps she had neglected him. She could hardly blame the man for avoiding the antics of the young people, who were scouring the castle for props and costumes and—Viola was sure—a bit of mischief whenever possible.
“Balderdash,” said Sophronia bluntly. “A man won’t say when he’s bored, Viola, he shows you. Winterton has been wandering the corridors like a lost child. I’m very much afraid he shan’t give a good report of our hospitality to Wessex.”
Viola’s lips thinned at this transparent effort to get her out of the drawing room. “I am sure Lord Winterton understands the circumstances.”
“But do you want to chance it?” Sophronia looked past her as Viola reeled. “Bridget! What have you got for us today?”
“A new scene, but we lack any suitable props.” Bridget plopped onto the sofa beside her great-aunt. Sophronia leaned her head close to see the pages she held. Viola had long since decided that Bridget was Sophronia reborn, exuberant and irrepressible. “Viola, could you help locate them? Everyone else is busy rehearsing.”
She shifted uneasily. The pair of them were looking at her so innocently, it immediately put up her guard. “What do you need?” Perhaps it could be found swiftly and she could be back before anything untoward happened . . .
Bridget consulted her pages. “A large book, a cape—preferably red velvet; what do you think, Aunt Sophronia?”
“Oh yes, definitely red velvet,” said the old lady in delight.
“A set of goblets that may be thrown around and not break, and an iron chain.”
Viola, having listened in growing dread, blinked at the last. “An iron chain?” she cried. “Bridget, what’s in this play?”
“A ghost,” said Bridget patiently. “I’ve told you that for days. But we haven’t got a chain, or a crown—”
“A crown?”
“He’s the ghost of the king.”
Viola put one hand to her temple. “You said the ghost delivered a prophecy about the king.”
“Yes. And then the king dies and becomes another ghost.” Bridget smiled as if she’d just answered every question. “And the prince becomes king after that, you see.”
Viola stared helplessly. “Of course.”
“There must be a chain and a crown somewhere in the house,” Bridget went on. “It is a castle, after all. Ask Mama if you cannot find them on your own.” She paused, then added, in a markedly offhand manner, “Perhaps Lord Winterton would help you look.”
Viola glanced at Sophronia, who merely gave a tiny smile and nod, and knew she was stuck. “Very well, I shall ask him. But you must promise to behave,” she added in a lower voice.
Sophronia waved both hands. “Of course! Of course!”
“No more kisses on stage,” Viola added, casting a glance at Serena and Mr. Jones. Serena was talking to Lord Gosling, but Mr. Jones was watching her with a strangely pensive expression. She was afraid the kissing would give the poor man ideas, which would be unfortunate. Frye might be despised as a scoundrel by Alexandra and Bridget, but Viola knew the dowager duchess still hoped Serena’s erstwhile suitor would return and persuade her to mend the broken engagement.
Bridget rolled her eyes. “We need the chain desperately. Otherwise Mr. Penworth will have no way to rehearse his scene, which is vital to the plot.”
“We cannot have that,” said Sophronia at once. “Viola, I am certain no one can find these things as quickly as you can.”
Viola very much doubted there was a plot to this play, but she couldn’t overrule Lady Sophronia. She nodded and went to find the earl.
He was in the small parlor near the grand hall, admiring a book of engravings laid out on a table near the windows. He glanced up as she came in, and a broad smile crossed his face. “Mrs. Cavendish. How does our grand entertainment progress?”
“I cannot speak to its grandiosity, nor to it being entertaining,” she said wryly. “I have been sent in search of props, and hoped I might enlist you as well.”
“Of course.” He closed the book and faced her. “What are we in search of, and where should we begin?”
“That’s why I need help,” she replied. “A most ridiculous list, and I haven’t the first idea.”
His eyes lit up and he grinned. “Excellent! An adventure.”
“That it will be,” she agreed, and they set out.
One item was easily accomplished. A visit to the kitchens and a few words with the cook unearthed some tinware that the actors could throw and not break. Viola told a footman to take it to the drawing room where the play was being s
taged, and they went in search of the next item.
“A scarlet cloak,” mused the earl. “Surely one of the ladies has a suitable one?”
Viola hoped so. By good luck they ran into Miss Penworth on her way to the music room. She was very talented on the pianoforte, and Bridget had assigned her the task of choosing and playing dramatic music for the play. Viola had lost all reserve by now, and spurred by Lord Winterton’s suggestion, she asked Miss Penworth if she or any of the young ladies had brought a red cloak. Fortune smiled on her; the young woman had brought such a cloak, and promised to send it to the drawing room.
“Thank you,” said Viola fervently. “I hope Lady Bridget’s play does no harm to it.”
Miss Penworth laughed. “I’ve known Bridget all my life,” she confided. “If it does, I am already well aware that His Grace will replace the cloak. He replaced my doll when Bridget drowned it in the lake, two bonnets lost to escapades planned by Bridget, and more hair ribbons than either of us could count.”
Viola breathed a sigh of relief as they left Miss Penworth to her practicing. “Two down, three to go.”
“What’s next?” the earl wanted to know.
“A crown, a large book, and an iron chain.” She shook her head. “A chain! Perhaps in the stables?”
They paused before a window overlooking the park in front of the house. The snow had stopped and the sun had come out, but the scene was no less daunting. It looked like a foot of snow drifted over the grounds, with only a few tamped paths through the glittering whiteness. Getting to the stables, down near the lake, would be cold and slippery.
“Perhaps in the attics?” The earl cocked his head toward her, his eyes dancing and a wry smile on his lips. “Or the dungeons?”
“There is an armory, but no dungeons I know of.” She tapped one finger on her lips, thinking.
“Dare I ask why a chain is required?” The earl appeared in no hurry to keep searching. He clasped his hands behind him and stood watching her. “It seems an odd item in a farce.”
And that is why Bridget wants it, Viola thought. “There was mention of a ghost—two ghosts,” she amended. “One will be the dead king—hence the crown—and one will be . . . another ghost.” His lips curved. Against her will, Viola’s did the same. “I’ve absolutely no idea why she wants a chain,” she confessed.
“Is that the weak, infirm, dead king I’m to portray?” he asked, as if dreading the answer.
She tried to stop it, she really did; but a gasp of laughter escaped her, then another. “I’m terribly afraid so,” she said, her voice shaking.
Winterton sighed and hung his head as Viola bit her lips to keep the laughter bottled inside her. “At least I’m to be a weak, infirm, and ultimately dead monarch. Having been here a few days, I now know it could have been so much worse. A dead night-soil man, or a pickpocket.”
“Well. Yes.” Viola tried to speak normally. “But the king leaves a crown for the prince, while a pickpocket . . .”
“That depends on his skill at picking pockets, don’t you think?” The earl grinned impishly. “He might leave a ruby the size of a hen’s egg.”
She laughed again. “Or a tatty old handkerchief.”
“Ah, but it’s the chance of something more exciting that renders it interesting. I think Lady Bridget would agree with me.”
Viola shook her head, but still smiled. “No doubt. Bridget would write a scene having him pick the pocket of a mikado or a rajah, as simple as you please, in the heart of Westminster.”
“A rajah! Now that would be an interesting role.” The earl’s face lit up. “I’ve been talking to young Mr. Jones about India, as he intends to take a diplomatic post there.”
“Does he?” Viola hadn’t heard that about Mr. Jones, only that he was friends with the scoundrel Frye and therefore must be hateful, according to Alexandra. She also claimed he’d said something very unkind about Serena, but from Viola’s observations, he hadn’t meant it.
“Yes. He asked for my advice on the journey there. I gather Newton has told everyone I’ve traveled to every corner of the globe, and can’t bear to set foot in England.” He said the last with a grimace.
“Have you?” Viola blushed when he looked at her in surprise. “That is, I did hear that you are a great traveler. I’ve never been out of England, and can’t imagine what it’s like in India.”
“Do you long to see the world?” he asked, sounding interested.
She thought for a moment. “A little,” she replied at last. “Yes, I suppose I do. I never had the chance of it.” A clock chimed in the room behind them, making her guiltily aware that she was doing nothing, just standing in the corridor talking to the earl. “Shall we see if there is a suitable large book in the library?”
“Of course.”
“It’s not true that I can’t bear to set foot in England,” he said abruptly as they walked. “I’ve been home for almost a year now.”
“So long,” she murmured.
“So few people truly get to see the world,” he went on, almost as if trying to persuade her. “There are places so vastly different from England, one can hardly describe them. People so different than Englishmen. Art and food and music. I would hate to spend my entire life without seeing anything other than the village I was born in, perhaps a few other villages, and then only London for exotic sights.”
That rather perfectly described Viola’s own life. “How very fortunate that you were able to see more.” She opened the doors of the library. Bridget had completed most of her play, so everyone was off rehearsing in other rooms. The library was quiet and empty.
“I do feel fortunate.” The earl went to the French windows, opened the drapes, and gazed out at the snow. The wind had died, and the view was dazzling. “Those who have the means and the ability and the desire to travel ought to do so, to bring those far corners of the world home to those who stay.”
“So it’s your duty?” She smiled to take the sting off the words, but he still shot her a sharp glance. Viola put up her hands. “I don’t judge, my lord. You have the means and the desire; therefore it’s entirely your choice whether you stay or not.”
“Wouldn’t you go, if you could?”
Her smile turned wistful. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Everyone dear to me is here in England. It hasn’t felt like a great loss to remain home.”
He recoiled as if struck. “I didn’t mean it’s a loss to stay home.”
“And I didn’t mean it’s an indulgence to travel.” She hesitated. “Lord Newton is young. Life seems to pass so slowly when you’re young. You feel you will go mad if you can’t escape the ordinary drudgery of home and family. It’s only when you’re a bit older that you realize how easy it is to lose those things, sometimes without noticing until it’s too late.
“I expect he’s told everyone you’re impatient to be gone because he would like to explore the world—at least a bit of it beyond England’s shores—and because of his father’s death he cannot. He sees you as free to do as you please, and if he were free to do as he pleased, he would be on the first packet to France.” She stopped at his expression. “That is only my guess at his feelings.”
“No,” he said slowly, still staring at her. “No, I believe you’re correct.”
Viola felt her face heat. “You know him much better than I—”
“I doubt it.” Winterton’s eyes were piercing. “I’ve only seen him a dozen times since he was a boy.”
“Well.” It was astonishing how flustered she felt, just from him looking at her. “Perhaps you’ll become better acquainted with his thoughts and feelings during this visit.” She chewed her lip and changed the subject. “A large book. Perhaps an atlas would do?”
He tensed. “Pardon?”
“An atlas. Bridget said it must be a large book, and an atlas is the largest book I can think of.” She went to the bookcase and surveyed the selection behind the finely carved wooden screen. “Perhaps this one. It’s large and looks impressive.�
� She pulled it from the shelf and opened it on the wide table.
The earl stepped up beside her. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“It’s Cellarius’s Harmonia Macrocosmica, and shouldn’t be trusted to Lady Bridget’s farce. I’m astonished Wessex keeps it here among the other books.”
Viola gaped as he took the book and turned gently through a few pages. His face was bright and sharp with interest. “This is one of the most beautiful examples of celestial cartography in the world. Look—” He laid one page in front of her. “The northern sky.”
It was a beautifully illustrated page, in vivid colors with constellation figures sketched over a background of stars. “It is lovely,” Viola whispered in awe. “I’d no idea it was particularly valuable.”
“I suppose not everyone would think so.” He closed the book reverently and put it back on the shelf. “Is Wessex a collector?”
“I’m not privy to that. The duchess has a fondness for maps, but I’ve never heard her speak of the stars.”
Winterton went still, as if startled. “Maps?”
Viola smiled. “Yes.” Before her marriage, the duchess had owned a prosperous draper’s shop in Melchester, and she’d stocked a good number of exotic fabrics from around the world. Viola had seen the map that used to hang in the shop offices, with pins pressed into the countries where she got her fabrics: fine cottons from America and India, silk from China, jacquard from France. Now that she was mistress of Kingstag, someone else ran the shop, but she still took an interest in it.
“I also have a fondness for maps.” Winterton turned around, his head cocked curiously. “I’ve never met a duchess who shared it. Does she collect them?”
“Do you?” Viola asked brightly. On no account would she discuss the duchess’s personal interests with him. “I suppose you must, on your travels.”
“I do have a number of them,” he admitted with a grin. “Atlases and maps are marvels—an entire worldview contained in one page or one book. I have an atlas of the world that doesn’t include any hint of America, because it wasn’t known. Another ancient map is centered about Jerusalem, per the church’s preference. And others—such as this Cellarius—are maps of things we can never possibly visit.”
Map of a Lady’s Heart Page 6