by Sandra Heath
“Ha!” declared the small woman triumphantly, as she began to mount the staircase, cleaver at the ready.
Chapter Seventeen
“No!” cried Marigold. “Oh, no! Please!” The woman paused, and her face changed as she realized Lord and Lady Avenbury were witnessing the scene. The cleaver was hastily concealed behind her back, and she gave a rather embarrassed curtsy. “Begging your pardon, my lord, my lady ...” The other servants, excepting Beech, melted prudently back to the kitchens.
Rowan looked at Marigold, and then at the woman. “What is the meaning of this, Mrs. Spindle?”
The cook bobbed another uncomfortable curtsy. “By your leave, my lord, I was about to prepare the bird for tomorrow’s dinner. I thought that with a little gooseberry sauce, it would be the very thing for your first full day home. You see, I sent Whitebeam down to the lake earlier, but he didn’t bag anything, so when this one just walked into the kitchen bold as brass a few minutes ago, well...” She shrugged, and didn’t finish.
Marigold closed her eyes. Eat Sir Francis with gooseberry sauce? It didn’t bear thinking about.
Rowan exhaled slowly. “Very well, Mrs. Spindle, but please take the wretched creature back to the kitchens in order to do the deed.”
Sir Francis began to stir, and then gave a strangulated shriek as the cook’s skinny fingers closed eagerly around his neck. Marigold caught Rowan’s arm desperately. “Please don’t let her kill him, Rowan!” she begged.
He groaned. “Oh, don’t tell me you think this is Sir Francis as well!”
“I don’t just think, I know. Please let me have him.” Sir Francis’s cries were choked, his little webbed feet paddled the air, and his wings flapped as he strove to escape the cook’s unexpectedly vise-like grip. Marigold fixed Rowan with her most imploring gaze. “Please! I’m begging you, Rowan!”
Rowan gave her a quizzical look, but nodded. “Oh, as you wish. Mrs. Spindle, please give the duck to Lady Avenbury.”
The cook blinked. “But, my lord ...”
“Do as I say, if you please.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Mrs. Spindle came disappointedly down the stairs, with Sir Francis still struggling for his life, and Marigold hastened to rescue him. The planned dinner was reluctantly surrendered, and the drake collapsed relievedly into the arms of the new Lady Avenbury.
The cook shuffled bemusedly. Was his lordship’s bride touched? She cleared her throat. “Would goose do instead tomorrow, my lady? Or mayhap a fine capon?”
Sir Francis’s head came up indignantly, and he fixed the cook with a look of absolute outrage, Marigold spoke hastily. “No birds at all, Mrs. Spindle,” she said, stroking the affronted mallard’s head.
“No birds? But I’m famous for my birds, my lady,” the cook protested.
Sir Francis’s bill clacked as if he were momentarily rendered speechless by such openly murderous bragging, but then he let forth a decidedly vituperative broadside. Fowl language indeed, thought Marigold, as she was obliged to raise her voice above his racket to reply to the cook. “I assure you that I do not care to eat anything feathered, Mrs. Spindle.”
“As you wish, my lady,” Mrs. Spindle replied a little stiffly.
Sir Francis subsided, clearly satisfied that his neck—as well as those of some of his fellow birds—was now completely safe from the cleaver, but his ireful gaze remained upon the cook. If he had his way, it would clearly be Mrs. Spindle who was served up with gooseberry sauce!
Rowan nodded at the cook. “That will be all, Mrs. Spindle.”
“My lord, my lady.” Mrs. Spindle curtsied again, and hurried away toward the kitchen. Marigold was anxious not to get off on the wrong foot, and so called quickly after her. “Mrs. Spindle?”
“My lady?” The cook turned.
“Your choice would have been truly excellent. You were not to know I do not like to eat birds.” Sir Francis gave a sour quack, and Marigold closed his bill with her hand.
The cook was mollified. “Will rack of Wiltshire lamb do instead tomorrow?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I will serve you the finest lamb you have ever tasted, my lady. And tonight, you shall taste my marbled ham. It’s always been a favorite with his lordship.”
“I look forward to it, Mrs. Spindle.”
The cook hurried on her way, and Beech followed.
Rowan immediately turned to Marigold. “Since when do you not like to eat birds? I seem to recall that at Vauxhall you enjoyed a large plate of chicken and salad.”
Sir Francis’s head rose until he was eye to eye with Marigold, but she promptly pushed him down again. “That was then.”
Rowan looked at the duck. “Why are you so certain it is the same mallard?”
“I just am.”
“I have to admit it has the same obnoxious temperament. May I inquire what you intend to do with it?”
“Do with it?”
“Well, you pleaded for its life, and now you have it. What next?”
“I... Well, I suppose I’ll just let him go. I’ll do it now.”
Two footmen were still unloading the carriage, and looked around in astonishment as the new Lady Avenbury emerged with a duck in her arms. Sir Francis wriggled as Marigold took him in both hands and made him look at her.
“Maybe Bysshe did raise you in a demonic circle after all, for to be sure you aren’t an ordinary drake. Anyway I want you to go away. Go back to Eton, or wherever it is you come from. If you stay here, Mrs. Spindle may forget herself after all!”
Sir Francis muttered something derogatory beneath his bill as she placed him on the gravel, so she shooed him crossly. “Don’t be so ungrateful. Go on, off with you,” she said. He shook his tail, tweaked a flight feather or two, then suddenly took to the air, but he didn’t turn for London, instead he disappeared into the gloom in the direction of the lake. Marigold listened to his diminishing wing beats, then went back into the house.
Rowan was still waiting, leaning back against a table with his arms folded. “Is it done?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Now then, is it safe to conduct you around the house while we await supper?”
She smiled. “It was Sir Francis, you know.”
“Whatever you say, Marigold.”
“Are you humoring me, sir?”
“Probably. Come.” He held out his hand.
As Marigold was shown room after room of the mansion of which she was now the mistress, she thought Avenbury Park was truly the finest house in England. It was grand, yet intimate, irregular, yet a magnificent harmony. She adored everything, from the rich dark oak paneling and exquisite Flemish tapestries, to the ornately carved Tudor furniture and fine old paintings. It was a house in which she could be very happy; if only ...
At last they approached the dining room, which opened off the hall. Beech was waiting at the heavily carved door, which he flung open to reveal the room beyond. As they entered, a longcase clock in a corner chimed the hour. A five-branched candelabrum stood upon the gleaming table, and provided the only light. The walls of the room were dark paneled like the rest of the house, and portraits of past ladies of Rowan’s family gazed down from gilded frames.
There was a ham salad supper awaiting them on the gleaming table, with crusty fresh-baked bread, peaches from the glasshouse, and a bottle of white wine that was very cold from the cellar. Everything was arranged amid glittering crystal glasses and highly polished cutlery, and there were more flowers, marigolds, in honor of Lord Avenbury’s new bride.
Marigold smiled, for it was a welcoming touch which she appreciated, but she was still concerned for Sir Francis. She turned to the butler. “Beech, I trust the duck did not come back again?”
“No, my lady.”
“Oh, good,” Marigold replied with relief, for she knew only too well that her instructions to the cook regarding feathers would not make the slightest difference to what might be set before the servants themselves.
Be
ech hastened to belatedly draw the green velvet curtains at the east-facing French windows, that in daylight must face toward the common and the oak tree. After shutting the night out and seeing they were both seated, the butler withdrew with studied tact, leaving the newly weds to their intimate diner à deux.
Mrs. Spindle’s marbled ham was delicious, as no doubt would have been her duck with gooseberry sauce, and in spite of Marigold’s deep concern over what had happened at the oak, she enjoyed her first meal at Avenbury House. It was afterward, while she and Rowan were discussing how some fashions changed very little, that he drew her attention to a portrait that was well lit by the candles on the table. It depicted a woman in black, holding a baby in swaddling bands. Apart from the baby, the woman was reminiscent of Mary Tudor.
Rowan smiled. “The first Lady Avenbury could appear at a funeral now, and not look out of place. Don’t you agree?”
“The first Lady Avenbury? Is that who it is?” Marigold immediately got up and went closer. “Why is she wearing black?”
“Don’t you remember what I told you by the oak? She, her husband, and the baby all succumbed to the plague. Lord Avenbury died first, and she was said to have been so grief-stricken at his death that her baby son was born prematurely. They survived him by one month, before they too fell victim to the pestilence.”
“How sad.” Marigold was about to return to the table, when another portrait caught her eye. It was at the very edge of the candlelight, and was a full-length likeness of a young woman in a russet gown, and if the first portrait was like Henry VIII’s unhappy elder daughter, Mary Tudor, this one was very like that same king’s ill-fated second queen, Anne Boleyn. Going closer, a chill sensation of inevitability passed over Marigold, for the young woman was standing among marigolds, and her hand was raised, with one finger outstretched. On that finger was perched a robin with white feathers in its wings.
Rowan followed her gaze, and identified it rather reluctantly, or so she thought. “That is the lost portrait of Jennifer Avenbury. I fear it has yet to be properly cleaned.”
Marigold held her breath as she gazed at it. The background, which was dimmed by nearly three centuries of smoke and grime, was divided in two, each half separated by twined marigolds. On one side was depicted the Avenbury circle, with the central oak tree surrounded by white-robed figures, druids presumably; on the other side was the lake, with waterfowl rising in a cloud as they had done when the carriage arrived.
Some of the background was almost entirely smoke-darkened, but she could still see the important features. Jennifer Avenbury had a pale, heart-shaped face, with brown eyes that gave no hint of her character. She was pretty, at least Marigold thought she was, for it was difficult to tell from likenesses of that period.
Her tawny hair was parted in the middle, then swept back beneath a pearl-studded headdress that was of a darker shade of russet than the richly decorated velvet and brocade gown. There were two necklaces around her neck, one a short golden chain from which hung an oval sapphire and pearl pendant, the other longer, so that its pendant, the jeweled initials J and A, rested against the gown’s stiff bodice.
She turned excitedly to Rowan. “It must be an allegory, for it contains most of the elements of the legend and curse. The only person who seems to be missing is the first Lord Avenbury. Please bring the candles, I’d love to see more detail.”
As he brought the candelabrum over, she couldn’t help noticing that he had the air of one who wished the painting had remained in the attic, but she didn’t comment. “Why do you think she’s standing in marigolds?” she asked, studying the painting.
“It may not mean anything. Perhaps she simply liked them, after all, they were a particularly favorite flower in those days.”
She glanced curiously at him. Why was he so intent on playing down the portrait’s significance. “Is that your honest opinion?” she inquired after a moment.
“Can you say I’m wrong?” he replied, not answering the question. Had he said “Let’s talk about something else,” his manner could hardly have been more pointed.
She decided to be direct. “What’s wrong, Rowan? Why don’t you want to discuss the portrait?”
“Marigold, until now you’ve been the one who has dismissed everything as chance or coincidence, but now I detect a definite volte-face. What happened to your absolute conviction that the legend and curse is all nonsense?”
“Perhaps I’m open to debate after all,” she said after a moment.
He gave her an oddly disappointed glance, as if she’d failed him in some way.
“Have I said something wrong?” she asked anxiously.
“No, of course not. Marigold, the curse isn’t a subject I enjoy discussing.”
“Nor is it one you can ignore.”
He gave her a wry look. “Especially when you’re around, it seems,” he murmured.
“I can tell that this portrait is important to everything, so please help me look at it,” she entreated.
“You, my lady, are a very difficult woman,” he said resignedly. “Very well, let us subject every brushstroke to a microscope.” He held the candle really close, and they both gazed at the painting.
Almost immediately, Marigold gave another gasp. “There’s a wheel lying among the marigolds! Why put it there, I wonder?”
“Heaven alone knows.” He gave her a sideways glance, guessing her thoughts. “If you’re wondering about what happened at the Spread Eagle, I suggest you stop. What possible connection can there be between that nonsense and the Avenbury curse? I don’t think any significance can be attached to the wheel in this, any more than there can to the marigolds. Your imagination has the bit between its teeth. Why, earlier you even tried to drag that odious drake in it all.”
“Because I think he is part of it. Rowan, there are mallard drakes in the portrait too. See? There, among the waterfowl on the lake. Are you going to tell me they happen to be Jennifer Avenbury’s favorite too? And look here, there’s also a spray of rowan in the grass! Oh, the more I look, the more strange things I discover. See the white-robed druids in the background? The one with an arm extended has black feathers instead of a left hand. Why is that, do you think?”
“Heaven alone knows. All right, I admit that you’re right, there are things in the portrait which cannot with honesty be unconnected with the legend and curse, and if the wheel mentioned at the Spread Eagle had something to do with it—”
“It does. Don’t you remember the little picture of the robin? With the same white wing feathers as my Robin ...”
“I’ve already bowed to your superior comprehension,” he replied.
She smiled, and resumed her inspection of the portrait. “These white-robed figures remind me of a painting at Castell Arnold. Anglesey was a druid stronghold in Roman times, and—” She broke off as another intriguing thing caught her attention.
“What have you seen?” he asked quickly.
“Something else that connects the Spread Eagle with all this. You told me Falk Arnold was among those who frequent the inn, didn’t you? Well, this druid here with the staff is the very image of him!”
Rowan leaned to look. “Good God, so it is.” Then he drew back, as if the likeness to Falk wasn’t the only thing he had suddenly perceived. He went to put the candelabrum down on the table.
“Marigold, this may be something or nothing, but I think I should mention it. Do you remember I mentioned the occasion at White’s when Falk was in his cups, and would have been thrown out but for Merlin? Falk claimed that one of his ancestors had been denied his rights by one of my ancestors?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, the figure you’ve singled out as being like Falk, is supposed to be Aquila Randle.”
Marigold’s lips parted in amazement. “What are you saying? That Randle may have been Falk’s forebear?”
“Not saying exactly, but certainly wondering.”
Marigold gazed at the portrait again. “So, at White’s
, Falk could have been referring to Randle’s defeat by the first Lord Avenbury?”
“It’s all conjecture, but...” Rowan shrugged.
“Rowan, when you told me the story of the curse, you said Randle’s parting vow was that he would return to see the thirteenth and last lord die, that he would marry Jennifer after all, and that he would take your title and inheritance.” She lowered her glance. “Falk has recently acquired a taste for stealing inheritances,” she added quietly.
“Marigold, it’s one thing to speculate that Falk may be descended from Randle, quite another to hazard that he may be about to take up the cudgels on Randle’s behalf.”
“Oh, believe me, it would be on Falk Arnold’s behalf, not Randle’s,” Marigold replied dryly. Her gaze wandered back to the druid with the staff. The painting was less distinct now that the candlelight was further away, but even so she thought the figure was her unamiable brother-in-law to a T, so much so that the artist might have painted it quite recently instead of several centuries ago.
Rowan looked at the figure as well, and then made another rather reluctant observation. “Randle didn’t spell his name the usual way. There’s a specimen of his signature on some document in my lawyers’ keeping. He signed himself R-a-n-d-o-l, which I’ve just realized is an anagram of Arnold.”
Marigold gasped. “So it is!”
“More than that, the obsession with bird names extends to Randol as well, for Aquila is Latin for eagle.”
“And Arnold means eagle power.” Birds, always birds. Falk, Merlin, Peregrine, Alauda, Shrike, Crane, Robin Redbreast, Jenny Wren, even Sir Francis! She lowered her eyes, recalling Jenny’s plea at the oak. Help us, Mangold! Help us, please, before it’s too late! Now that so much had seemed to be shown in the portrait, should she tell Rowan about Robin and Jenny? She decided she would.