“She did. She hanged herself with her own petticoat,” Rosalie said sadly. “And they buried her there, with a stake through her heart so that she would not walk.”
Brisbane turned to walk off, but Rosalie caught his arm, leaving me standing some little distance apart.
“That is why I stayed. For my own penance. I had a hand in my sister’s death, we all did. The chemist, those terrible children, Sir Alfred. When Mariah hanged herself, Sir Alfred believed the only way to break the curse she had laid upon him was to make amends to me. He let me have this cottage, and he had them lay her at this crossroads so I could always watch over her. And now the earth has moved, and she has spoken to us at last,” she said, her eyes shining.
Brisbane stared at her. “Are you quite mad?”
Rosalie began to weep then, or to laugh. The sounds were very alike, and she rocked, holding herself. “Oh, my dear boy. Did you not even see that for what it is?”
She pointed at the hole, and I realised she was not mad. She was entirely, completely, beautifully sane.
“It’s a mine!” I cried, stumbling toward the edge to peer down into it.
Brisbane caught me, an arm about my waist, and we looked in together. I could just see timbers, the beams heaved into place perhaps by the Romans themselves so many centuries ago. And through the thick soft black peat mud of the walls, I could see the rain cutting through the earth, exposing the dark metallic veins.
“Lead?” I guessed, hardly daring to hope.
“Silver,” Brisbane corrected. He looked at me then, a slow smile spreading over his face. “A silver mine. On my land.”
I threw myself at him for the second time in as many minutes. “Shall I get down on one knee?” he asked, after an extremely interesting interlude. I noticed Rosalie and John-the-Baptist had moved a little distance away to give us some privacy.
“You haven’t asked Father yet,” I reminded him.
“Oh, good God. I don’t think I can face that.”
“Let’s just run away to Gretna Green,” I said, pressing my lips to the enticing spot where his jaw met his neck.
“Absolutely not,” he said roundly. “Your family would string me up from the nearest tree. No, if we are going to do this thing, we shall do it properly. At Bellmont Abbey or in London, I do not care. You arrange whatever you like and I will be there,” he said, brushing the sodden hair away from my brow. “And we will go wherever you wish for our wedding journey,” he said, his eyes lighting with sudden mischief. “Even to the ends of the earth with you in a white petticoat.”
I poked him hard in the ribs. “You did hear me.”
“Every word.”
There followed another extremely interesting interlude during which I completely forgave him for hearing my impassioned plea when he was unconscious. And after it was concluded, I ventured a question.
“Would you really have let me go?”
He took my hands and tucked them into the pocket of his coat. “You are cold. We ought to get you inside.”
I prodded him again. “Would you?”
He tipped his head to the side, his hair thoroughly soaked and sleek as a seal’s. “Would you?”
I nibbled at my lip. “Well, I was planning a rather sizeable donation to Aunt Hermia’s Reformatory for Penitent Women,” I admitted.
“How sizeable?”
“A few hundred thousand pounds. Just enough to reduce me to the status of barely respectable widow. I might have even had to take employment,” I told him.
“What are you fit for?”
“I thought perhaps I would make a very good partner in detection for a certain inquiry agent of my acquaintance,” I said, running a finger along his underlip.
He grabbed at my hand and pressed a kiss to my palm. My knees felt suddenly weak and I think I may have clung to him a little harder. “Partner? I thought assistant.”
I gave him a repressive look. “If we are going to do this thing,” I said, deliberately turning his words back on him, “then let us have it clearly understood. We are equal partners. Both of us now have money to contribute, and both of us have rather unique talents. I think we would make admirable partners.”
“We always have,” he said, and that simple declaration meant far more to me than the one he made a moment later, which was a little more poetic and a great deal more private. He had just concluded this romantic little speech with an extremely expert kiss when we heard approaching hoof-beats, muffled by the moor and the rain.
We looked up to find a small party approaching, and to my astonishment, I realised it was my brother Bellmont, accompanied by his eldest, Orlando, and a gentleman and young lady I did not know.
“Driffield,” Brisbane called. The Duke of Driffield raised his hat in spite of the rain, smiling broadly.
“I say, when Bellmont told me a fellow named Brisbane owned this place, I hoped it was you. Told him you were always a good fellow to know.”
Brisbane walked over and the two shook hands. Bellmont was staring in disbelief, his mouth agape.
“Hullo, Monty,” I called cheerfully. “Orlando, how are you, dearest?”
Orlando dismounted and came to give me a kiss, very correctly ignoring my bedraggled state. “Very well, thank you, Aunt Julia. May I present my fiancée, Lady Harriet?”
The young lady had a pleasant, rather horsy face and an excellent seat. I smiled at her. “Lady Harriet, do forgive Orlando. He’s never been very good at introductions, but he is marvellous at chess. I am his aunt, Lady Julia Grey.”
She nodded, smiling broadly. “Oh, we do not stand on ceremony. We prefer country manners. How d’ye do?” She turned to her father who was chatting amiably with Brisbane. “Father, this will do quite well. The moor is excellent for hunting, and I think the village could do with a little benevolent work. The drains looked rather wanting.”
Her manner was brisk and managing, and I looked affectionately at Orlando. If anyone needed managing, it was he. The boy did have ambitions, solid ones, and eventually he would be Earl March, a position of great authority and responsibility. He was well-intentioned, but neither as solid nor as articulate as his father. A firm wife, practical and efficient, would be the making of him.
“But the house,” his Grace of Driffield interjected doubtfully.
Lady Harriet waved a hand. “Can be put right with a bit of work. The east wing wants restoring, of course, and there will have to be a new stable block built. The old one is far too distant from the house. It will not serve forever, of course. Once we have children to be launched and Orlando is settled in Parliament, we will need to be in London regularly and it may be too far removed. But for the first fifteen, twenty years, I think it will suit us quite nicely.”
Lady Harriet seemed like a very determined young lady, and I fancied that whatever she turned her hand to inevitably came right.
“The estate comes with an excellent cook and a superb farm manager,” I put in, slanting Brisbane a mischievous glance. I had a feeling Mrs. Butters could be persuaded to remain at Grimsgrave, particularly now that so many of the ghosts of the place had been put to rest.
“And Gypsies,” Bellmont put in. He had been remarkably silent, but nothing had escaped his notice.
Driffield brushed this aside. “I always let them camp on my land. Bad luck not to, you know.”
He waved a courteous hand to Rosalie and John-the-Baptist who had maintained some distance from our visitors.
Driffield nodded toward the hole. “Bit of trouble?”
“Not at all,” Brisbane said coolly. “It is a mine, actually. We mean to open it again. So I am afraid I cannot sell the estate. My apologies, Lady Harriet,” he added with a nod in her direction.
“A mine will be excellent for the local folk,” she said. “Must keep the villagers employed.” Clearly the duke had raised her to take a keen interest in the lives of those dependent upon their goodwill. “Perhaps we can sort something out and purchase the house itself, but lease the mo
or for purposes of hunting if we promise not to interfere with the operations of the mine?” she asked hopefully.
Brisbane smiled. “You have a fine head for business, Lady Harriet. And I am certain something can be arranged.”
“Excellent,” said the duke, clearly relieved that his imperious daughter was not to be thwarted. He seemed to see me for the first time and I was aware of the wide streaks of mud across my costume and my hair, dripping wet and hanging free of pins.
“Do forgive my appearance, your Grace,” I began, but Driffield merely waved a hand.
“Think nothing of it, good lady. I admire an athletic woman who is not afraid of a little dirt in the pursuit of sport.”
Bellmont choked a little, but I smiled graciously.
“Yes, I am terribly athletic,” I agreed.
I went to my brother and raised my face for a kiss.
He obliged me and I whispered into his ear. “Get down and shake hands with Brisbane. He is going to be your brother-in-law.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it abruptly, the little muscle in his jaw working furiously. “I suppose there is no point in trying to talk you out of this disaster?”
“None whatsoever.”
He paused a long moment, then asked, “Will he make you happy?”
Bellmont’s wide green eyes were anxious, and I put a hand to his face, smiling up at him. “Do I look happy?”
He studied my face, took in my entire figure from filthy clothes to abominable hair. “I have never seen you more radiant,” he admitted. He kissed the top of my head and slid from the saddle.
He went to Brisbane and extended his hand. “I understand congratulations are in order, brother,” he said stiffly, and I knew precisely what that gesture had cost him.
Brisbane accepted his hand and I went to stand beside my betrothed.
“I only hope you know what you are getting into,” Bellmont said with a sigh.
“I am quite certain,” I told him tartly.
Bellmont lifted a brow. “I was talking to Brisbane.”
He shook his head and remounted, leading the way back to Grimsgrave.
THE THIRTY-SECOND CHAPTER
In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.
—William Shakespeare
Much Ado About Nothing
There is little more to say; I married him. The words are familiar, but the simplicity of them holds the whole world within. We married on Midsummer Day, in the little church of St. Barnabas at Blessingstoke, with my father’s dearest friend, Uncle Fly, the vicar of Blessingstoke, to perform the ceremony. Most of my family were present, which meant the day was little short of Bedlam.
As it was my second marriage it ought to have been a quiet affair, but nothing to do with the Marches is ever quiet. My father smiled through his tears as he gave me away, and the little church was crowded with my relations and Brisbane’s Scottish uncle, the Duke of Aberdour, nearly ninety and almost totally deaf. He shouted through the service, demanding to know what we said until Brisbane roared at him, “I just promised to endow her with all my worldly goods, now be quiet!” To which the duke replied, “I didn’t know you had any worldly goods,” and subsided into muttering for the rest of the ceremony.
In fact, Brisbane had rather a lot of worldly goods. The mine had apparently been closed when the Romans were driven out of the north, and never opened again until the weight of Mariah Young’s coffin and the sodden earth had broken it open. In death, she had given her son the means to live his life as he pleased, and it felt like a benediction from the grave. Brisbane had defiantly reburied her in the chapel graveyard at Grimsgrave, flouting church authority, but then Brisbane was never one to observe rules he does not respect. Rosalie promised to lay flowers when they journeyed past each summer, for she returned to the road with John-the-Baptist. I did not know if we would ever see them again, but I knew she would keep her promise to Brisbane.
The Duke of Driffield settled matters quickly, paying a generous sum for the remains of Grimsgrave Hall and engaging Mrs. Butters and Minna and Godwin. Minna was training to be the housekeeper under Mrs. Butters’ tutelage. Mrs. Butters, who might have held the post herself, was content to remain in the kitchen, and Godwin was very nearly beside himself at the handsome flock of sheep the duke permitted him to purchase with an eye to re-establishing the livestock. Work had already begun at the house by the time Portia and I left, and a new lightness had come over the place. The first thing Lady Harriet had done was burn the tapestry of Allenbys, claiming it was ugly and full of moths. She might have been right. It seemed a little sad to destroy the record of such a long and noble lineage, but I thought of all the pain and suffering that lineage had caused, the slow descent into madness, and I was glad for Lady Harriet. Even if ghosts walked at Grimsgrave, they would never stand against her sound common sense and practicality. When I last saw Grimsgrave, Lady Harriet was having the black pond in front of the house drained to make a flower garden.
Portia agreed to take Florence, as Puggy would not be separated from his little family. I still had Grim, and Brisbane had acquired Rook, the lurcher, who refused to travel with the Gypsies, but simply lay down in the road until Brisbane came to fetch him. I did not know how we were going to manage travelling with him, but he was surprisingly delicate in his habits, and I grew fond of him very quickly.
The wedding itself was arranged with tremendous speed and very little trouble. I simply let my sisters fuss over the details and spent every moment I could with Brisbane. They dressed me in a very suitable, elegant gown of heavy lavender silk, a nod to the mourning I no longer wore, and a wreath of lavender blossoms in my hair. I did not wear a veil, and by the time the dancing was finished, the lavender had broken to bits, twining in my hair only to fall out later in Brisbane’s hands, like so many pieces of confetti. Brisbane was dressed in beautiful black, with the purest white shirt and waistcoat, a picture of elegance in spite of his tumbled hair and the slight shadow at his jaw.
We stayed the night at my little house, the Rookery, with no one to wait upon us. I dismissed Morag for the night, and sent Aquinas up to my father’s home at Bellmont Abbey. We were alone, finally, and I stared at the ring upon my left hand, a slender band of diamonds.
“I told you I didn’t need diamonds,” I chided him. “Plain silver would have been enough.”
“It is plain silver on the underside, and I had it engraved,” he told me. He slid it off my finger and rolled it in his fingers, catching the light.
A chain of letters had been incised inside, “‘HIIii116,’” I read aloud. “Another Shakespearean code, and a simple one.”
“You know what it means?” he asked, settling me onto his lap. I put one arm about his neck and held out my other hand for him to replace my ring.
“Hamlet, of course. ‘Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love.’” I put my brow to his. “I have never doubted it, you know. Not really. But it is a lovely quote.”
He slanted me a wicked look. “Well, it was either that or All’s Well That Ends Well, Act One, scene one, line two hundred twenty-one.”
I furrowed my brow. “I do not remember that one.”
He slid an arm under my knees and rose effortlessly to his feet. “‘Get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee.’”
I was still laughing when he kicked the bedroom door closed behind us.
* * *
What followed was a revelation. It is astonishing that so simple a thing can change everything, but there it is. Before we went into that room, the world was as it has always been, but by the time I awoke, long afterward as dawn was just beginning to silver the shadows, my entire life had changed. I stretched and yawned, sinuous and satisfied as a cat. It woke Brisbane who opened one eye and grinned at me sleepily.
“You have ruined that corset in your haste,” I told him severely. “That was French lace, you know,” I added, mourning the loss of the beauti
ful pale violet confection. I had ordered it from Paris at great cost and worn it precisely once.
“I’ll buy you another. Besides, it is nothing compared to my complaint. You snore,” he said thickly.
I hit him with my pillow, sending a shower of feathers into the air. One settled on his shoulder and I blew it off. “I do not. You must have been dreaming of another wife.”
He took the pillow and put it under his head, leaving me nowhere to rest mine except his chest. I nestled there, one hand toying with the crisp, dark hair that spread toward his belly. Another interlude, vastly more interesting than those on the moor, took place and the sun was fully up by the time we had concluded our exchange of affections.
“We haven’t even talked about the wedding trip yet,” I said, yawning broadly.
Brisbane quirked a brow at me in a gesture I knew so well. “If that was where your thoughts were, remind me to apply myself more thoroughly next time,” he said with a touch of asperity.
“Oh, no. I only thought of it after, I assure you. If you apply yourself more thoroughly I don’t think I will be fit to leave this bed,” I consoled.
He nodded. “That is better. As to the wedding trip, I have had Monk on the Continent, scouting suitable destinations. He seems to think Venice would be lovely, or perhaps a villa in Greece?”
I stared at him. “Monk has been looking for a house? For us?”
“Of course. You don’t think I would marry you and drag you off to someplace, sight unseen? I trust him implicitly. He always thinks to inquire about things like hygienic arrangements,” Brisbane said, raising a brow significantly. “I gave him a list of places I compiled months ago and sent him off to look them over.”
“I cannot believe you have been thinking about this marriage, planning this marriage for months.”
He put a hand through my hair, twisting it around his fingers. “I have been planning it since that first interview in your study at Grey House, a few weeks after Edward’s death. You were all wide eyes and tart tongue, and you insisted to me Edward could not have been murdered.”
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