by Kirsty Ferry
‘Hmm.’ Elodie didn’t seem convinced.
She hoped she hadn’t been too obvious with her line of questioning. Maybe Alex would think she had genuinely brought Jasper up because of the pistol, and that had jogged her memory of some old family tales that Alex’s father had shared with them. Another of the Earl’s passions had been genealogy and every so often, when he remembered he was supposed to be rearing the heirs to Hartsford Hall, he would chatter about his ancestors.
But she couldn’t help it. The image of the angry, drunk young man tied to the carriage wheel haunted her. ‘His monument’s in the corner, isn’t it? The big one? How old was he when he died?’
‘Jasper? He was twenty-two. He went a few months before Georgiana. The three of them – Jasper, Georgiana and Lucy, the little one, all died young. Lucy survived just long enough to see the end of the French Revolution in 1799 and died at the turn of the century, but she was the last one of that branch of the family. That’s how the original Hartsford line ended. It’s about the only piece of information I found interesting enough to retain.’ He added, ‘Lucy’s under that little stone angel by the lych-gate, and Georgiana was supposedly in the chapel, while Jasper is in the corner. I never understood why they were so scattered. It just seemed a random thing, like nobody had really given it much thought.’ He shrugged. ‘My lot are descended from someone else, the chap who took over the title. Some French cousin that appeared after the Revolution and Waterloo. Dad tried to teach me but, you know. All I remember is he had the surname Aldrich.’
Elodie nodded as she picked her way through the mud. All around her was the sound of steadily dripping rainwater running off the trees, but alongside that was birdsong, as if the feathered residents of the parkland had quite enjoyed the rain and were chattering about it. Two peacocks ran in front of her, the sun glinting off the droplets on their bluey-green feathers.
A third bird, a silly little peahen, darted out after them and caught Elodie off guard. She stopped quickly to avoid trampling on it; but a sudden halt, trainers that were slick and done-for and a muddy lawn did not work well together and she slipped, landing hard on her bottom whilst trying to save Great Aunt Polly’s altar cloth.
‘Elodie!’ Alex stopped, just as suddenly, almost slipping in the mud himself. ‘D’you need a hand?’
She grimaced; it hurt. It was also very embarrassing and tears sprang to her eyes. ‘Stupid mud!’
She thrust the altar cloth bundle at Alex. He took it, then hauled her up with his free hand. Despite the horrible predicament she was in, Elodie was astonished at how firm his grip was – those martial arts must have toned up more muscles than she thought. It was a long time since they had held hands properly – in fact, it was possibly when …
Her cheeks burned at the memories. And suddenly it was all too much; the mud and the hand-holding and the weird images and the damage to Georgiana’s tomb – it had all shaken her more than she cared to admit. Elodie turned back towards the house and a sob caught in her throat. She couldn’t stop the messy snivels that came after it.
‘Oh, come on. It’s not that bad, is it?’ Alex looked down at her and his voice was so nice and so sympathetic, she wanted to cry even more. She was exhausted and wrung out. ‘Let’s get you back home. You need more than just a drying out now.’ Alex took her elbow, regardless of the mud that now caked it, and steered her away from the little path that led to her lovely cottage; in his mind, of course, “home” was the Hall. But, oh God – that was another thing. What if her own house was floating away across the walled garden as they spoke?
‘My house—’
‘Forget it. It’s the landlord’s problem if it’s leaking, not yours.’
’But you’re my landlord!’
‘And I’m insured. It comes with the territory. Nobody said being the Earl of Hartsford would be easy. Look, I’m taking you back to the Hall. At least I know my wing is waterproof and Cassie has some stuff left in her wardrobe, so we can get you clean.’
She half-smiled through her tears. ‘When we were at school, you would have laughed your socks off at me in the mud.’
‘That was a long time ago. People change.’
I know she wanted to say. But what if it’s too late and people have changed too much and they suddenly realise they’ve lost something along the way? But instead, she said nothing and just let him guide her home.
Hanging onto Elodie was like hanging onto a seal. The mud had made her slippery from head to foot and Alex couldn’t really get hold of her properly. He thought she might end up on her backside again if he let her go, so they sort of shuffled and slipped their way across to the Hall.
‘Wait,’ she said at one point, and stopped to take off her shoes. ‘My feet are sliding out of them anyway. What’s a bit more mud in between my toes?’ She dropped them into the nearest bin, but at least having bare feet gave her a bit more purchase as they walked around the side of the Hall to his front door.
When they reached it, however, Alex didn’t hesitate to scoop Elodie up and prepare to carry her into the house. ‘Good grief, have you been packing away too many of Delilah’s scones?’ he teased. Delilah owned Coffee Cream Cupcake, the tea shop in Hartsford village, which also supplied the Hall’s little café with treats. Elodie worked at Delilah’s a few days a week when she wasn’t volunteering at the Hall, and was rather partial to a cake or two.
‘I have not! I’ll have you know, I weigh next to nothing.’ Alex laughed and shouldered the door open as Elodie demanded to be released. ‘Alex! Put me down. This instant!’ At least she had stopped crying and was laughing with him now.
Alex started up the stairs. ‘No way. You think I’m letting those feet anywhere near my carpets? Think again.’
He took her straight up to the bathroom and made her stand in the bath.
She slipped a little and he caught her arm. ‘Take as long as you need. There’s not really any bubble bath but Cassie swears by her rose bath salts. Use those, she won’t mind. There’s a clean towel on the rail and I’ll get some of my sister’s gear for you. I’ll leave it on the landing, okay? Actually – no.’ He assessed her as she stood in the bath. ‘Cassie’s fairly straight up and down. You’re not. She’s, what, five-eleven, six feet? You’re five-three, five-four? Her stuff won’t fit, will it?’
Her eyes narrowed to slivers of aquamarine. ‘Did you just call me short and fat? Again?’ There was no malice in her voice.
‘No, you’re anything but!’ He grinned and switched on the underfloor heating – the bathroom was huge and a bit chilly, especially since he’d left the window open that morning and the damp from the storm had crept in a little. ‘But trust me. I’ll find something. See you later.’
He left the room and shut the door just as he heard the taps turn on.
Elodie ran the water and rinsed the worst of the mud off her feet and down the plughole; then when she felt she could walk without leaving stains all over the grey and white tiles, she stepped out of the bath, and shed her sodden clothes. She put them in the shower cubicle and turned her attention back to the bath. It was huge – one of those old-fashioned ones that sit in the middle of the room and you had to climb up a couple of steps to get to it. She put the plug in, left the hot water going and headed over to the open shelving unit on the wall. She gratefully located a bottle of unisex supermarket shampoo and the rose petal bath salts. They smelled divine.
She stripped off her underwear and, joy of joys, the floor was actually heated underfoot, so she simply laid her bra and knickers on the tiles to dry out a bit and stepped into the bath. Lying back, she let the water slowly fill up. She hadn’t realised how damp and uncomfortable she felt, so the water was soothing and very, very welcome. The warmth washed over her and she closed her eyes, drifting off into a rose-scented dream …
It was the first full moon since that night. She waited and watched by moonlight, as she had promised.
A cloak was wrapped around her body, but still she shivered. A bla
nket of fog wreathed the Faerie Bridge, boiling up from the River Hartsford, rushing sea-wards beneath her. A lantern, stolen from the stables, was placed by her feet, out of sight of anyone who might be watching from the Hall. She thought the fog was heaven sent; it hid her while she strained her eyes to see into the woods. All sound was deliciously muffled around her, and she listened hard for the pounding of hoof beats. Her fingers were frozen and stiff as she clutched the balustrade of the bridge. The dampness crept into her hair and drove it into ringlets around her face.
There was a noise along the pathway, leading back from the village and she tensed, her heart hammering. It was a song; a bawdy song, sung off-key as a young man appeared through the mist, holding an imaginary woman in his arms as he danced by himself, spinning and turning and bowing exaggeratedly.
Georgiana recognised Jasper and exhaled. He stopped at a fork in the path and debated which way to turn. She prayed he would take the path straight to the Hall, and her prayers were answered. The bawdy song started up again as he disappeared into the mist and faded as he stumbled away from her.
Georgiana smiled, filled with love for her well-meaning, if misguided and at times reprehensible brother. He had a new pair of duelling pistols, and had talked of nothing else for days. She was sure he had one tucked into his waistband tonight. He was so proud of them – bought to replace the one Ben had ruined with his shot. She only hoped he’d never have cause to use them. Blowing on her fingers, she flexed them to keep them warm and looked into the woods. She wasn’t sure what time it was now. She didn’t even know if she should wait much longer.
Then the clouds parted and the moon shone more brightly, and she saw him coming through the trees. Saw the big, black horse and she was frozen to the spot. He paused in the clearing and looked, it seemed, right at her. She watched him dismount and stride towards the bridge. His cloak billowed out behind him, his boots made no sound on the soft earth.
She stood on the cusp of the bridge as he approached. He wore no hat, no mask tonight. He saw her and his face, his beautiful face, the face that was as familiar to her as her own, split into a smile.
‘Ben! You came.’
‘Lady Georgiana.’ He took two more steps and he was beside her. ‘I always will.’
And she was in his arms, enveloped in them, breathing in his scent, completely certain that she had found the other half of herself. Completely certain that she would never, ever let him go. And absolutely sure that he meant every word he said.
‘I didn’t know – I didn’t know if I should wait.’
‘I’m pleased you did.’
‘I don’t even know your name, beyond the word Ben. Who are you?’ She stood away from him slightly, searching his face for answers. ‘Why do you do – this?’
‘It pays well.’ He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. ‘Mostly. And once, the treasure I found was worth more than gold.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Believe it or not, I’m from a fairly high-ranking family; not quite as grand as yours, perhaps, but I suppose as the second son I was never meant to uphold the family name quite so much.’
Georgiana couldn’t help but giggle. ‘You were destined for the church or the army, then?’
‘I’m more of a devil than an angel, and I’m not terribly fond of being shot at. It was never going to work. No, my vocation is in the arts. Which doesn’t help me much at present, as I tend to travel around at night when it’s too dark to write or paint or sculpt or do anything worthwhile. I fell into some – interesting – company, and I won some money from them. Then, as I began to lose to these people, I found that this profession was a less risky alternative. You don’t have someone wanting to kill you every night, when you do this. Just some nights and that, Lady Georgiana, would be a very unfortunate night indeed.’
‘But what about your family? Don’t they wonder about you?’
‘As far as my family is concerned, I’m on the Grand Tour and unable to communicate with them. Damn tragedy. I might even be caught up in the French Revolution and lying low. Who would be able to confirm that? Or, I could very well be in Germany, learning to dance an Allemande.’
‘Is that where you learned it?’
‘It is.’
‘I won’t tell anyone your secrets, Ben.’
‘I know, Georgiana. That, my love, is why I’m telling you …’
Chapter Five
Elodie’s eyes flew open and she sat up in the bath, confused. All of a sudden, she was back in her own life, in Alex’s bathroom; and she wanted out of that big, echoing room and to have some human companionship. Her heart was thumping and she could still smell the cold and the frost coming from the man who had taken her in his arms and claimed her heart …
She quickly washed, then scrambled out of the bath, her hair still dripping, and slithered across the warm tiles to the towels. Finding a huge black one, she wrapped herself in it and hurried over to the door, cautiously opening it and peering out into the corridor. There was a neat pile of clothes on the floor, exactly where he’d said they would be – a clean white t-shirt, a blue checked short-sleeved shirt and a pair of faded denim shorts, all smelling familiarly of his fabric conditioner. And he had even included a big leather belt. He must have known the shorts wouldn’t stay up without it.
As it was, the shorts came down to below her knees and still flapped ridiculously around her thighs, but she was grateful to him. And even more grateful that she’d waxed her legs the other day.
She opened the bathroom door and stood in the corridor, trying to get her bearings. She’d never been upstairs in his house since the wing had been privatised and couldn’t quite work out where she was. The layout had changed considerably since her childhood when the three of them – Alex, Elodie and Cassie – had free range around most of the Hall.
He’d swung her around a couple of corners when he was carrying her upstairs, so she headed in the direction they’d come from. If she found a staircase on her travels, she would simply walk down it.
However, the first staircase she found headed upwards and there was a sound of scraping and banging coming from the top of it. Elodie paused at the bottom, trying to peer up into the darkness.
‘Alex?’ she tried after a moment. ‘Are you up there?’
She really didn’t know what she would have done had he answered her from behind and left the upstairs occupant a mystery; but luckily the scraping stopped and his familiar voice came floating down the well-worn wooden stairs.
‘Yes, I’m here. Come on. I left the door open for you!’
‘Right.’ She placed her hand on the railing. Then she paused. ‘Are there spiders?’
‘Some Daddy long-legs,’ he shouted and she shuddered, ‘but no spiders yet.’
‘O-kay.’ She headed up the steep little flight of stairs. Goodness only knew what she would find at the top. ‘Weren’t we going to look at the duelling pistols though?’
‘We can do that later. I just thought I’d check this out while you were in the bathroom. You might find it more interesting.’
The steps came out into another corridor which turned right; but it wasn’t half so welcoming as the one Elodie had just left. She knew from her stints as a tour guide that she was in the servants’ quarters. In the main house, the night nursery, playroom and school room were up on the third floor – but here the metaphorical green baize door, which was kept locked and inaccessible to the tourists, opened from the children’s rooms onto the servants’ corridor. The servants had to share their part of the house with the attics, and it was in one of these, in the first room on her left, that she discovered Alex.
He had propped open the attic door with an old chair and there was a great deal of dust swirling around, the motes catching in the washed-out sunlight that was coming through the small lead-paned windows. He too had changed out of his wet clothing, but the new trousers and the clean t-shirt were already looking slightly grubby.
‘Hey.’ Elodie coughed, her lungs reminding her they objected to
dust. ‘Found you. You’re “it”.’ Twenty years ago, this would have been perfect for a game of hide and seek.
Alex laughed, sat back on his heels and gestured to the items in front of him. ‘Close the door if you want. I just left it open so you’d find me more easily. Then you can come over here.’
Elodie moved the chair and the door swung shut. A large, battered travelling trunk was open in front of Alex, and it had all sorts of treasures spilling out of it: there were, amongst other things, embroidered, yellowing petticoats, a riding crop and a broken parasol, and even a 1920’s style feather boa irrevocably tangled with a string of what might have been real pearls or simply white paste beads, snaking down the side of the trunk and pooled on the floor.
‘This would be a wonderful resource for the next Living History weekend,’ Elodie said. Living History weekends were something Hartsford Hall was becoming famous for. Elodie had worked in West End theatres as a costume designer, and had been used to dealing with everything from diva to disaster. The weekends had really taken off when she had come back and it was one of her favourite jobs on the estate. She knew those events were something she could do, and do well. She could be in control again. Living with Piers and having her life unravel as it had, in a knot of his extra-marital affairs and his petty power-games, had chipped away at her confidence.
Alex had seemed to know instinctively that she needed to take ownership of something to make her feel valued again. She was very grateful to him for coming up with the Living History idea – he had decided that certain weekends throughout the year could be themed, for example as a Victorian Christmas, or a Georgian market, or as The World of Jane Austen. The staff dressed appropriately and the event always incorporated all sorts of wonderful historical elements; and Elodie loved them.