“Damnation, that table is ancient,” Henry cursed, leaning forward to move the doll aside.
Florence almost exclaimed, to tell him not to touch the horrid thing, but reminded herself sternly that she did not believe in such supernatural nonsense. That idea was tested somewhat as she saw the design beneath the doll. Three circles had been drawn one inside the other and, in the smallest, a simple daisy-like pattern filled the space.
Florence jumped as slim fingers curved around hers and turned to find Grace at her side.
“I don’t know what it means, but that is surely witchcraft,” the young woman said under her breath.
Before Florence could respond a gruff voice sounded from the open doorway.
“What’s all this?”
“Sterling! Thank God. Look at this.” Henry gestured for the man to come in.
Sterling Oak stared about the assembled company for a moment, appearing reluctant to enter. At Henry’s insistence he moved forward, and his eyes widened at the sight of the corn doll.
“What do you make of this?” Henry asked, gesturing to the carving on the tabletop.
Sterling stared at it. He seemed uneasy. “A hexafoil.”
Henry’s eyebrows went up. He waited but Sterling said nothing further, so he gave an exasperated huff.
“Which is?” Henry demanded.
Mr Oak shrugged. “To trap evil spirits.”
Henry made a sound of irritation and rubbed a hand over his face. “So I’m dealing with a blasted lunatic.”
Mr Oak sucked air in through his teeth, plainly disliking Henry’s observation. “Wouldn’t say that.”
“Well, what would you say?” Henry asked, losing his patience.
Mr Oak glanced around the assembled company and frowned, shaking his head. Clearly, he did not wish to speak in front of everyone.
“For heaven’s sake, Sterling,” Henry said. “If you know something—”
“I never said that!” he retorted.
“I think perhaps Mr Oak would rather speak to you in private, Mr Stanhope,” Grace put in, before the two men could lose their tempers. “Perhaps he does not think the conversation fitting for female ears,” she added, though there was a hint of mockery in her eyes.
Mr Oak’s attention was suddenly riveted on Grace, and with such intensity Florence felt he no longer saw anyone else. It was as if they’d all disappeared.
“That’s not it,” he said, his deep voice rumbling through the room.
“What, then?” Grace asked.
He studied her, really studied her, as if he could weigh the elements of her soul if he stared long and hard enough. Grace returned his gaze with a quiet calm, apparently unruffled.
“That there corn doll represents the Maiden. The cunning folk know things we don’t, Miss Weston. My Gran did. There’s stuff out there older than us, things we don’t understand.”
“You surely don’t believe in witchcraft?” Henry said, clearly aghast at the idea.
Sterling met his gaze steadily. “I don’t say as I do, but I don’t say as I don’t either. There are more things in heaven and earth.”
Grace seemed interested in this, her head tilting to one side to study Mr Oak. “You’ve read Hamlet, Mr Oak?
“Aye, why not?”
“I meant no offense. Only that I supposed farmers have little time for such things.”
“The winter months are long and dark, miss.”
There was something in the way he said it that made Florence’s skin prickle. She cleared her throat, eager to dispel the strange atmosphere in the room.
“Whether or not any of us believe it, why would someone put a corn doll in this room, with that symbol beneath it? What are they trying to say, Mr Oak?” she asked.
Mr Oak’s attention slid unwillingly from Grace to Florence. “I couldn’t say, Miss Knight. Generally, corn dolls are positive symbols. You must know that much.”
“Of course. The last sheaf is said to hold the spirit of the corn. It’s plaited into a corn doll to give the spirit a place to live until the next harvest, then it’s ploughed back into the soil. They are supposed to bring good luck, I think?”
“That’s right.”
“So why does it feel like a threat?”
Mr Oak shrugged. “Perhaps it’s the spirit of the corn that’s in danger.”
Henry made a pained sound, so Florence glared at him. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling but held his tongue.
“Or perhaps the Maiden represents someone, a woman in danger,” Grace offered.
Mr Oak looked back at her. His eyes were a very dark brown and he regarded Grace with a speculative but approving expression. “Could be,” he agreed, not taking his eyes from her.
Grace flushed and took a step back, so she was slightly behind Florence.
“Look,” Henry said, and Florence felt he was counting to ten. “I know there are some riveting and bizarre customs among the locals. Indeed, on my travels I have discovered there are stories like this all over the world. Every culture has its witches and superstitions, some more outlandish than others. No doubt there is a kernel of truth to be found here or there,” he allowed.
Mr Oak snorted and folded his arms.
“But honestly, Sterling. Whatever the origins of this… this Maiden, her use has clearly been appropriated to put the wind up me.”
No answer from Mr Oak was forthcoming past a noncommittal shrug.
“So I need to find out who and why. Yes? Do you have any ideas?”
Mr Oak considered this for a lengthy moment. “No.”
Henry threw up his hands. “Well, as fascinating as this all is, what the devil am I supposed to do with that thing? Burn it?”
“No!” Mr Oak said, with such vehemence Grace flinched. He cleared his throat and spoke again, looking somewhat apologetic. “No. Don’t do that. Keep her safe. If she represents a real person, it’s best you keep her with care, just in case.”
“Do I invite her to dinner? Make up a bed for her?” Henry asked, apparently at the limit of what he could take.
“Don’t burn her,” Mr Oak advised, his voice holding a clear warning.
With that, he turned and strode out of the room.
Chapter 10
Dear Pippin,
I hope you and that wicked husband of yours are keeping well and enjoying the peace our absence must surely afford you. If by some strange quirk of character, you miss our unruly presence in your life, I wondered if you might like to take a few days holiday here at Holbrook House? Cat will be beside herself with joy, especially if you bring that old rogue with you. She believes her skill at cards is waning in his absence.
The earl assures me you would be most welcome and made very comfortable. I believe we urgently need your rather specialist skills to solve a mystery that is becoming a matter of some concern. Tell me, what do you know of corn dolls and their use in witchcraft?
―Excerpt of a letter from Lucian Barrington, The Most Hon’ble, The Marquess of Montagu to his old cook “Pippin”, Mrs Bertha Appleton.
16th August 1839, Holbrook House, Sussex.
Florence took Grace for a walk about the gardens whilst the staff set about restoring the dining room to order for their meal. She wondered where Henry would put the Maiden for safe keeping, and then about Mr Oak and the things he’d said. He was a very forbidding looking man, so stern and not a little intimidating. She did not much like him and was uncertain he was trustworthy.
“What do you think of Mr Oak?” she asked Grace.
Grace looked up. She had been staring down at an ornamental fishpond at the centre of the formal gardens they were strolling around, stooping to trail her fingers in the cool water. Her skin was flushed, and she pressed her damp fingers to her throat with a sigh. The heat of the day was becoming quite unbearable.
“I’m not sure. He’s rather taciturn, but I wonder if that’s just his manner. Some men simply do not feel at ease in company.”
Florence pondered this. “He
makes me nervous.”
Grace let out a huff of laughter. “Yes, I know what you mean. He does always look like he’s about to bite your head off. Though….”
“Though?” Florence pressed, curious.
“Oh, I don’t know. Only that he reminds me of Papa.”
“Not really?” Florence exclaimed, appalled. “Your father is an absolute sweetheart.”
Grace smiled, a wistful expression crossing her face. “He is, isn’t he? But that’s because you know him well, Flo. He’s dreadfully fierce with strangers. Mama is always telling him off for it.”
“I’ve never noticed that,” Florence replied.
“Well, he doesn’t really socialise outside of the village, and all the same people your family are friends with, so you wouldn’t.”
“Don’t tell me you think Mr Oak is all soft and melty beneath that gruff exterior?”
Grace sent her an appalled glance. “Good Lord, no. What an idea. Only that perhaps he does not realise how intimidating he is, and that he needs someone to show him life need not be quite such a serious ordeal.”
“Ah, Grace,” Florence said, giving her friend a swift hug. “How good you are.”
Grace made a rather bitter sound which was so out of character Florence’s heart ached.
“Not so good as all that,” she said with a twisted smile, and walked on.
Florence followed behind and they carried on along the path. A trickle of perspiration slid down Florence’s back and she took her fan from her pocket, trying to stir the heavy air to a breeze. They were in full sun here and it was becoming intolerable. How she longed to cast off her corset and stockings. Ahead of her, Grace raised a hand to her head and swayed.
“Grace!” Florence exclaimed, hurrying to catch her up and slide an arm about her waist.
“I’m well. Don’t fret so,” Grace said, her expression pinched. “I’m just hungry, that’s all.”
“Did you not eat any breakfast again?”
Grace shook her head. “I can’t eat first thing. It just makes me sick.”
“Well, let’s get you inside, into the cool. It’s far too hot out here. It’s making me feel cross, and that’s a dangerous thing, as you know.”
Grace laughed obligingly and Florence guided her into the shade. Feeling eyes upon her she turned to see Mr Oak watching them. A prickle of alarm ran over her, and she turned her back on him with something like defiance, returning Grace to the house as fast as was possible.
Henry did his best to be an entertaining host, but the afternoon seemed interminable. He’d woken with a hangover, and cracking his skull on the cobbles had hardly helped. His head throbbed like the very devil and, as fond as he was of most of his guests, he could wish them elsewhere.
Except for Florence, drat her.
What was he to do about Florence Knight? He could no longer pretend there was nothing between them. Hell, he didn’t want to pretend. Though he still felt certain he was a poor choice for her, she wanted him. Heaven knew why, for there were surely far younger and more eligible men than he who must be falling over themselves for her attention. He’d not even been kind or nice to her, yet she persisted in seeing beyond his idiotic behaviour. He could not fathom why, but she saw him, understood him, with no need for Henry to explain himself.
It was strange, wonderful, and terrifying. Yet he could not make himself stay away from her. He wanted her and, if she persisted in seeking him out, eventually he would be forced to offer for her to atone for some reprehensible behaviour on his part. Then, of course, Gabriel would tear him limb from limb. So, perhaps he ought to just give into the inevitable and marry her.
Marrying her would not be so bad. It would satisfy Harriet, for one, and stop this ridiculous matchmaking. Then Florence could live here, at the Hall. She would give him children and create a home for them. The idea filled him with equal parts warmth and panic. Well, he need not be here all the time. Once she was settled, he could go travelling again. Jasper would keep an eye on her and any children, and they’d be well provided for, and… and that way he could keep some distance between them. Not just geographically, but with this feeling she evoked inside him, the strange, aching need to be with her all the time, every second. If he spent some of his time away, that peculiar urgency to be in her company would dissipate, and things need not become too….
“… around the house?”
He blinked, aware that he’d not been attending the conversation at all.
“Your guests would like the tour of the house you promised them, Henry,” his sister repeated with a touch of impatience. She’d clearly been speaking to herself for some time.
“Oh, of course. My pleasure,” he said, getting to his feet.
“Oh, no. I think I shall retire to the parlour, if you don’t mind me being a bother, Mr Stanhope. That nasty doll and all the goings on…. Oh, I shall never sleep again, I’m sure.” Miss Dudley fanned herself vigorously, shaking her head with distress.
“Fear not, Miss Dudley, I shall accompany you home in my carriage if you would prefer,” Jasper said, which was almost enough to make Miss Dudley swoon again. “Though, of course, Miss Hatchet must accompany us for propriety’s sake,” the man added with a twinkle in his eyes.
Realising that he was being saved from an interminable afternoon, Henry sent his oldest friend a look of deep gratitude. Miss Hatchet, who was likely afraid she’d miss out on some delicious bit of gossip, looked less than pleased but could do nothing but accept such a gracious offer. No doubt she’d enjoy telling anyone that would listen all about the earl’s splendid carriage, which would be some consolation.
In the end there was only a small party who gathered for the tour: the Comte de Villen, Evie Knight, Florence, Grace Weston, and rather to Henry’s surprise, Sterling Oak.
They began in the library, which had always been Henry’s favourite room in the house. It was the one place that got anywhere close to feeling homey, at least when the fire was lit. The furniture was ridiculously old and rather shabby, but it had a lived-in, familiar feel, which was welcome when the rest of the house was so bare and cold.
He could not help but watch Florence as he guided them around, explaining the history of the place. She seemed delighted by the library, exclaiming about the lovely view from the window and the handsome oak panelling lining the only bit of wall not smothered in books.
“Is it true one of your ancestors was involved in smuggling?” Miss Evie asked as they made their way up the grand staircase to the next floor.
Henry bit back a smile at the look of delighted interest that flashed across Florence’s face at this information.
“Not really?” she demanded eagerly.
“Yes, that’s true,” Henry admitted. “The family finances were in dire straits and one of my paternal grandfathers decided something must be done.”
“And is it true there is a secret tunnel leading from the house to a pub in the village?” Miss Evie persisted.
“No.” Henry shook his head, rather sorry to disappoint Florence, who was looking enraptured by the story. “No, there are a few hidden doors and hidey holes, as with most ancient houses, but there’s no tunnel. Believe me, as a boy I searched high and low for it too, but no one has ever found evidence to suggest it’s true. I think it’s just that it was an open secret—about the smuggling, I mean—but no one ever found any evidence to convict the old devil. It was assumed there must be a tunnel for him to get away with it so effectively and for so long, but perhaps he was just very well organised.”
“What a pity,” Evie said with a sigh. “Just imagine finding a hidden tunnel to explore.”
Henry turned back to Florence, who was frowning, her previous enjoyment no longer visible.
“Miss Knight?”
“What if you’re wrong?” she asked, staring at him with such concern Henry wanted to reach out a hand and draw her close to him.
He held onto the banister to stop himself from doing so. “Wrong?”
“About the tunnel. Think about it, Henry, about screams in the night and corn dolls on your pillow.”
“On your pillow?” Sterling repeated, staring at Henry. “You never said they’d been in your room.”
Henry shrugged. “It was just a doll, and I cannot believe there is a tunnel when so many people have searched for so long.”
Sterling stared at him, shaking his head. “It wasn’t just a doll. It was a warning. We need to find out what this is about before whoever is doing this goes too far.”
“I agree.” Florence was staring at Sterling with interest. “What do you propose to do about it, Mr Oak?”
Henry heard the challenging note in her voice and wondered at it. He realised now that it was not unusual for people, especially women, to take a dislike to Sterling. The man did not have an easy manner, or anything resembling charm, and seemed to rub people up the wrong way. It was clear Florence did not like him.
“I’ll ask about,” he said, holding Florence’s gaze. “See if I can dig up any old stories, resentments against the family.”
“Good,” Florence said with a tight smile. “I know all of Mr Stanhope’s friends will rally around to keep him safe. Whoever is doing this will not get away with it.”
“Mr Oak, would you mind giving me your arm? I think I’ve had too much sun.”
Miss Weston’s intervention was purposeful and timely, breaking the brittle atmosphere.
“Aye, you’re red as a beet,” Sterling said with his usual lack of tact. “I suppose you’ve not drunk more than a thimbleful of water? Come along. I’ll take you back downstairs and get you a drink.”
“How gallant you are, sir,” Miss Weston said, though her dry tone was lost on Sterling who offered her his arm without a word.
Henry watched him escort the young woman down the stairs.
“Miss Evie, come and see.”
Henry turned to see the comte had discovered the large stained-glass window on the south side of the building. Evie made an exclamation of delight and hurried after him, leaving Henry alone with Florence.
“I don’t like him,” Florence muttered.
Dare it all for Love (Daring Daughters Book 5) Page 11