I blushed, hating that he had caught me snooping. “Who are they? I recognize the shepherd, but who are the others?”
“Relics, all of them,” he said flatly. “Remnants of a bygone era.”
For a moment I stared at him, trying to pierce through that breezy smile to the man behind it. “The faceless one is you, isn’t it?”
At last he looked up from the pages, and I almost wished he had not. I recognized it for what it was—a predator reassessing its prey, as if the doe had fought back and charged the hunter.
“What an interesting opinion,” he purred.
“It isn’t an opinion. The portraits outside your office . . . those are all you, aren’t they? You appear differently to everyone. You’re an old man to Poppy and something else to Mrs. Haylam, though I don’t know what,” I replied, sticking out my chin. I turned and pointed at the painting. “That’s you and that’s the shepherd. Who are the other two?”
Mr. Morningside appraised me closely for another moment and then shuffled the papers in his hands, putting them in a neat stack on the desk. With the air of a teacher bored to death of his student, he crossed to the painting and lifted the dust cover off it.
“They were mentors, of a sort,” he explained. He, too, seemed drawn to the painting, staring at it as I had earlier. “I never knew them well, not like the shepherd knew them. Back then I was very young, hardly more than an idea made manifest.” He put back the cover rather roughly and strode toward me, taking up the translations and glaring at me down the length of his nose. “It doesn’t matter, Louisa; they’re gone.”
“Gone? Do you mean they’re dead?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “You cannot kill a god, girl, only convince it that continuing to exist is folly.”
I wanted to know more, so much more, and I tried to choose my next question thoughtfully, for I knew he would do everything he could to dance around a direct answer. Before I could say another word, Mr. Morningside winced, gathering up the papers and holding them close to his chest as if he were suffering a sudden pang. His face became tinged with green, like a man on the verge of sickness.
“Blast it all, he’s here,” he muttered, drawing in a deep breath through his teeth.
“Who?” I asked, following him to the door.
“Shepherd,” Mr. Morningside growled. He looked at me with pity then, or perhaps sorrow. With his eyes softened that way, he almost appeared sympathetic. It was hard to imagine anything ruffling the Devil, but clearly—clearly—I saw fear in his gaze. “I suppose we must hurry, Louisa; my trial is about to begin.”
Chapter Nineteen
As soon as we reached the landing, Chijioke burst in through the front door of the house. The chaos left behind by Amelia’s disappearance lingered, though now there was even greater cause for action. In the kitchen, I heard Mrs. Haylam shouting orders to Poppy, and Bartholomew barked out his frustrations with the noise. Chijioke had lost his coat somewhere, charging toward us in his shirtsleeves, sweat glistening on his forehead. Through the open doors outside, I spied the cart and horses still waiting in the drive.
“Sir,” he said, breathless. “They’re here, the—”
“Yes, Chijioke, I am aware.” Mr. Morningside gave him a mild smile and a pat on the shoulder, then gave each of us a look in turn. “Now, both of you, please let Mrs. Haylam know that I will be along shortly. We must all remain calm, as this is little more than a formality, thanks to Louisa.”
Chijioke turned toward me, giving a soft “huh.”
Was it really that surprising that I could make myself useful?
“I don’t expect it will take long. Chijioke, if you would be so kind, please encourage Miss Canny’s acquaintances to take the carriage to Derridon. There have been sightings of her there and of course they will want to investigate those claims.”
Nodding, Chijioke bounded up the stairs. Above us, I could hear the men arguing, and judging from the proximity, they were doing so in Amelia’s rooms.
“What if they don’t come back?” I asked.
Mr. Morningside laughed and laughed, then shook his head at me as if I were a child speaking out of turn. “They always come back.” Then he swatted me lightly on the nose with the papers in his hand, sweeping back toward the green door that led to his office. “I will need to look over these translations and change into something more suitable. Tell Mrs. Haylam to prepare light refreshment on the lawn for the shepherd and his retinue. I will do my best not to keep them waiting.”
I gave a quick curtsy out of habit and rushed toward the kitchens, nearly colliding with Poppy as she bounced back and forth between the range and the large table in the center of the room. My message seemed awfully redundant, considering that same table was already heaped high with a dazzling array of tea cakes, tiny sandwiches, and bowls of fruit. There was even a luxurious pineapple there, decorated to look like a peacock, with cloves for eyes and fresh flowers for the feathery tail.
“Don’t just stand there gawking, girl, help! Mary is still recovering, so we will be short a pair of useful hands.” Mrs. Haylam, surprisingly, looked flustered, perhaps for the first time in her life. She bustled as nervously as Poppy, loading up trays with mincemeat pies and sparkling teacups.
“Mr. Morningside said to provide light refreshment in the yard,” I said, not knowing where to put myself in the midst of so much chaos.
“Well, what does it look like we’re doing?” Mrs. Haylam snapped, pinching my earlobe as she whooshed by. “Help Poppy with the tea, please, and fetch some brandy, too. Slice some lemons very finely, child, as that is all the shepherd will take with his tea.”
I found Poppy struggling under the weight of an overladen silver tea service and took it up for her, laying it out neatly on the table. Several lemons were produced from the pantry, and I took pains to cut them into minuscule wedges, fanning them out prettily on a plate with the sugar and cream.
A mess of heavy footsteps pounded on the staircase out in the foyer. I peeped out while Mrs. Haylam was busy washing a stain from her apron, and saw Mason, his father, and Samuel Potts trooping across the worn rugs to the front doors. I had barely glimpsed Mason since Amelia’s disappearance, and I was shocked to find him strolling along as if nothing had happened. In fact, he was distracted by a necklace in his hands, a locket that he had opened and run a thumb over fondly. It was fruitless to guess at what was inside, but perhaps it was a cameo of Amelia and he was simply using it as a remembrance. He noticed me staring, his blond head coming up sharply as he fumbled, blushed, and shoved the locket into his waistcoat pocket.
I curtsied to cover my rudeness and said gently, “She’s certain to turn up soon.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you,” he said, but there was no hope or kindness in it.
That was just as well. I felt cruel lying to him, providing hope that did not truly exist. The men disappeared and Chijioke with them. Faintly, as the doors closed, I heard him explaining the way to Derridon and giving suggestions on where to look for Amelia.
Soon after, the “light” spread we had prepared was ready to be presented. My stomach was in tight, gurgling knots as we began ferrying the food from the kitchens to the lawn. When we stepped out into the hazy sunshine, Chijioke had just finished putting out a series of wicker chairs and three low, outdoor wicker tables. I paused with a tray of cakes and clotted cream, taking stock of those who had come for the Court.
They did not look particularly intimidating, but Mr. Morningside had made sure to pound into my head that appearances were nearly always deceiving. Indeed, the tableau before me might have been a merry Sunday gathering of friends—the shepherd had changed out of his woodsy flannels and into a more formal suit, but it was still a far cry from Mr. Morningside’s indisputable taste. Indeed, he had even brought along his tattered cap, a rustic counterpoint to his brown summer coat. His daughter, Joanna, was also dressed more formally, wearing a pretty pale blue muslin dress tied under the bust with a pink satin bow. Her butt
ercup-yellow hair was pinned up and braided under a sweet straw bonnet.
Joanna helped the shepherd into his chair, then stood next to him, squinting around at the house curiously. Their patchy-furred herding dog, Big Earl, had come, too, taking a day away from the sheep to stand guard at his master’s side. Big Earl had eyes only for Bartholomew, who paced and snuffled in the shade of the barn.
Finch and Sparrow were there of course, too, dressed in matching summer tweeds of gray and light green, Sparrow again wearing trousers, her long dark hair coiled up and pinned, the braids intertwined with ribbons the color of spring grass.
My first thought, as I approached, was that they all, with the exception of Sparrow, looked delighted to see me. It was growing hot as the day wore on, and I must have looked tired and sweaty as I set down the first tray, for Finch sprang forward to help me.
“That’s not necessary,” I told him softly. “You’re our guests.”
“Louisa . . .” The shepherd leaned forward in his chair, round cheeks ruddy from the heat. He smiled at me, but it did not touch his eyes. “I am not surprised to find you are still employed here. Still, it is reassuring to see you in good health. Hmm, now this one I do not recognize. . . .”
I glanced over my shoulder, watching as Lee emerged from the kitchens with the tea. He glowered up at the sun, hair overgrown and mussed, clothes rumpled. I tried to give him an encouraging smile while Finch described to the old man who exactly Lee was and the strange circumstances that had led to him being a permanent fixture at Coldthistle.
The shepherd harrumphed, hurrying to make his point before Lee arrived. “Things are changing rapidly, I see. Henry has much to explain.”
That cold ache in my bones returned, and the knots in my stomach tightened painfully. I dreaded the thought of testifying against Mr. Morningside, particularly where Lee was concerned. No, Lee had not belonged at Coldthistle House—that was a mistake—but it was my own actions that had led to his demise and return. I knew speaking it all aloud would fill me with shame and regret, but maybe I deserved to feel those things again and again.
Beyond that, it seemed ludicrous to take a side against Mr. Morningside when I had accepted his help, making a deal to provide those translations that he thought would prove his innocence. I had not meant to play both sides, but unwittingly, I had.
“Are you well, Louisa?” Finch asked, coming to me and placing a hand on my elbow. I flinched away. “You look terribly pale.”
“Just too warm,” I mumbled, tearing away to help Lee unload the tea. He had seen Finch’s familiar touch on my arm, and his frown had turned into a sneer. “Ignore him,” I whispered to Lee, snatching up the emptied tray and fleeing toward the house. He followed.
Lord, but this was a mess. I wanted to disappear. Maybe nobody would notice if I ran straight through the kitchens, up the stairs, and into Mary’s room. I could hide there with her, and while the day away talking, talking about her and where she had gone, talking about anything but this confounded trial.
When we reached the kitchens, Mrs. Haylam was just leaving. She had managed to get the spot out of her apron and collected herself, no longer so harried but regal, head held high as she strode out into the yard, hands empty, leaving Poppy to scurry behind her with a platter of buns.
“This is ridiculous,” I said, ducking into the cool shade of the kitchen. There was still much to bring out for the guests, but I leaned against the table, tarrying. Lee went to the basin and washed already clean hands, then used the water on his hands to smooth out his wild hair.
“I wish they would go,” he replied, keeping his back to me. “Just being near them makes me feel ill.”
“Mr. Morningside swears they will be gone soon, but that only seems like wishful thinking. Who knows how long this so-called trial will last or what the outcome will be. Mr. Morningside seems preoccupied with it all, as if it might go badly.”
Lee let out a vicious laugh at that and twisted around to look at me. It was odd to see him so angry, as if the sweetness of his face protested this new, meaner temperament. His lips had always been formed as if to smile permanently, this scowling and snarling unnatural.
“Good. I hope he suffers.” He stalked to the table and took up a tray of sandwiches.
I sighed and reached out, placing my fingertips on his forearm.
“No, Lee, you don’t want that,” I told him. “Not because he doesn’t deserve it—because he does—but because of what it will mean for us. He says they’re here to scrutinize us, and Finch himself said they have to do some kind of observation. They won’t leave. Finch or Sparrow or both will stay behind to watch him. And it won’t just be him; if they’re in the house, then our every move will be observed. That’s how Finch found Mary and me the other night—they’re patrolling Coldthistle at all hours.”
That gave him pause, and he put the tray back down for a moment. He stared at the place where my hand touched him, and his scowl fell for just a moment. I knew our faces were the same—helpless. Sad.
His curly head lowered, and when he looked up at me again his lips were straightened in a determined line. “I don’t want those things around here, Louisa. My guts are always drawn up like I’m going to vomit. It’s . . . hard to sleep now, but even harder with them here.”
“I’m sorry,” I told him.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said hotly. “Just help me find a way to make them leave.”
I nodded and took my hand away, helping him lift the tray of sandwiches and then finding something of my own to carry. I did not tell him that instead, I was trying to find a way for all of us to go. “Mr. Morningside wants me to testify on his behalf, and Finch wants me to speak against him. I . . . could lie, but I’m not certain that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not?” he pressed, walking slowly to the door with me. For the first time since he had returned, he looked hopeful. Excited. “What does it matter if it will get them to go?”
I hesitated in the doorway. A bank of low clouds had moved in, settling across the sky like a heavy gray curtain. Finch spotted us lurking and gave a little wave to me as he stood next to his sister. “Because I’m not certain lying is an option, Lee. I don’t think they will let me make up stories, and if I do, I’m afraid it may get me killed.”
Chapter Twenty
Mr. Morningside did not appear at all during the “light refreshment” on the lawn, and it was growing dark by the time Mrs. Haylam urged the visitors to move into the pavilion. She had timed it all perfectly—the shepherd and his friends disappeared into the big white tent just as Mason Breen, his father, and Samuel Potts returned from Derridon.
I was dispatched to serve them supper in the dining room while Chijioke and Lee tidied up the mess in the yard and put away the wicker furniture. It was all accomplished like the smoothest sleight of hand—one group disappearing before the other could notice them, everything still running more or less smoothly while we accommodated two separate parties.
As I brought cold ham and an array of salads to the dining room, I couldn’t help but wonder what was taking Mr. Morningside so long. Hadn’t he only gone to change his clothes? Was this some calculated trick to make the shepherd wait and establish his dominance? Whatever it was, it only made me hopeful that it would grow too late for the trial to begin that night. I had already worked a full day, and I wasn’t sure I had the presence of mind to outwit an Adjudicator when I longed so for bed.
The elder Breen and Samuel Potts stayed just for a moment, long enough to snatch up a few cuts of meat and wine before retiring, grumpy and mud-spattered, to their rooms. Out in the foyer, I heard Poppy hurrying to find wash clothes and a basin for them while I continued serving Mason Breen. He was quiet for a spell, chewing slowly, drinking his wine lazily and with aching, exhausted movements. It was like he was moving through sludge.
“I suppose we must go to Malton tomorrow,” he finally said, sighing into his ham. His sleek blond head was low over the plate as he poked at his foo
d. “After everything we . . . After so much turmoil. I cannot believe Amelia would humiliate me this way. I always stood up for her. I always stood up for her.”
Please go to bed, please go to bed, please go to bed . . .
“Sir, if I may—”
“Of course,” he said with a snort. “Does it look like I have anyone else to talk to?”
I bustled over from the serving board and poured him a bit more wine. If he kept drinking that claret steadily enough, then it would get him upstairs and asleep all the faster. He grunted in thanks as I refilled his glass, and then immediately began sipping.
“I did not know Miss Canny well,” I began, taking a step back and cradling the decanter with my palm. “Not at all well—in fact we only spoke at any length once—but she struck me as a strong-willed young lady. We grew up not far from each other, and as she revealed to me, in poverty.”
Mason moved with more urgency at that, his head turning swiftly toward me. There was a small red wine stain on his lip. “Did you indeed?”
“Aye, sir, my accent is not what it was, but Dungarven and Waterford are not far apart,” I said. “Having all that new wealth, joining a great family like yours . . . I can only imagine it was—is—intimidating for her. I know for my part it would be hard to change so much; it would feel like maybe I was betraying my old family. My old friends. It’s like becoming a new person.”
Gradually, Mason smiled, a dimple creasing his cheek as he gazed a little drunkenly at me. “I hadn’t thought of it like that. My only fixation has been her hatred of my father, and one can hardly blame her. . . . He is an acquired taste. He only wants what is best for me, but he cannot see that Amelia wants me for me, not for my money. Or at least I think she does. Damn it all, why did she have to run like that?”
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