Elizabeth slipped it out of view against the coach seat, used to the long-standing practice of defending an old friend from insult. “Nothing to fret over.”
“Fret indeed. Do away with it or we shall feed it to the fire. I indulge your fancies with sketching because it is a proper pastime of gentle ladies, but not a substitute for necessity. Marriage is a tricky business, both to acquire and then to manage. You’d best remember your duties.”
“I remember,” Elizabeth whispered.
And she did, because she was allowed to forget nothing.
It was another ball.
Another gentleman of eligible age and situation.
Another glimmer of hope that had morphed into a dramatic scene played over and over: she must secure a match, and fast.
Her mother reminded her in regular fashion that she’d been blessed with fair gifts of honey hair and porcelain skin with only a few freckles to mar the bridge of a pert nose—which they could hide with the right maquillage. And she still possessed the glow of youth beset by rose cheeks and a radiant smile. But they would not last. With no dowry, no title, and one Yorkshire estate that had secretly fallen into utter disrepair, Elizabeth hadn’t much by which to rescue them.
Save for one ballgown.
It was a muted cranberry from two seasons prior that was still presentable, but not bold enough to be labeled as showy. Even though that’s what it was. All it was, really—a bit of show enabling her to play a part, weave a masterful deceit, and ensnare her a husband.
Time had wings and they knew it full well.
“Now, Elizabeth. The estate owner is a Viscount Huxley—one of the Suffolk Jameses. I believe he is the great-nephew of your late pa-pa’s distant cousin.”
“Has he any family?”
“Both parents dead. No siblings, so he’ll inherit everything. The viscount is still young. Unmarried, but he’ll have to acquiesce to that soon if he wishes to produce an heir—which he must. The invitation declares this ball is a birthday celebration in honor of his lordship’s friend. The man is said to be an old bachelor himself. Whispers say he is a struggling portrait maker the viscount seems to have taken into his acquaintance. No doubt he is a disreputable man with a lot that cannot be redeemed even by such a grand occasion.”
Even if it were true, something fluttered in Elizabeth’s midsection.
A portrait maker?
Trying not to give note that her interest was piqued by the mention of an artist in residence instead of by the most eligible ball giver himself, Elizabeth cleared her throat, adding a layer of singsong to her voice. “To be a portrait maker, would this man not have some provision to be commissioned by clients who must be in a position to pay for his services?”
“Oh, they have their wretched ways. Painters . . . vagrants.” Ma-ma wrinkled her elegant nose and Elizabeth could have laughed aloud. Her mother did believe such wild tales of those who did not fit her mold of polite society and its upper crust.
“Have you the artist’s name?”
Ma-ma waved her off with the flick of her wrist, instead giving ardent attention to the ruffle encircling Elizabeth’s hem.
“What are they all named? Sir something or another. Lord this, His Honorable that. An artist of no consequence, I’d wager, if he attends a ball this far into the wilds of the East Suffolk countryside.”
“Does that reflect poorly then on those in attendance?”
“Certainly not for us. Though it is said the artist is quite eccentric, he and Viscount Huxley are close in acquaintance—to the tune of the artist offering counsel on matters of both a business and even a personal nature. And to date, the viscount has selected no bride. That cannot be coincidence. So this penniless artist could prove a profitable confrère in the end, if we draw him out early.”
“Perhaps the artist’s affinity for portraiture would give us something by which to converse. I’ve never met a real artist—not one who makes a living by the brush at least.”
“Penniless is not a living.”
Elizabeth exhaled, frustration battling to escape her and finding only a pent-up breath by which to do it. “Ma-ma, do you really intend to force me into this? Might we consider the fact that Viscount Huxley has no desire to wed?”
“Your father had no desire to wed when we were united either.”
“What in heaven’s name does that mean?”
“Not a thing, save that you ought to heed my warnings to mind your duty, and mind it well.”
“What is duty, when I, too, have heard rumors that the viscount is most austere in the company of eligible ladies? I heard tell of Lady Michaels’s daughters who were so ill received not two seasons back, they escaped the estate before dawn to avoid the unpleasantry of engaging him in the same breakfast room the following day. I suspect the viscount needs no acquaintance to speak for him if houseguests choose to flee his estate of their own volition, and in the dead of night no less. It appears his manners are able to accomplish that all on his own.”
“Then it is you who will prove those rumors false by dutifully changing his mind.” Ma-ma offered a polished smile, as if her efforts in encouragement were best served in their last moments before they stepped into the throngs of the big show.
When Elizabeth did not reciprocate, Ma-ma forfeited pleasantries in favor of a grim countenance. “Elizabeth . . . you know our circumstances full well.”
“I do.”
“And you face destitution because of them.” She paused, as if to let the cold reality sink in to Elizabeth’s innermost being—as if the loss of her father before her eyes had not done that on its own. “We face it.”
“I know that. But I am not unhappy. At least, not due to our circumstances.” Elizabeth turned her gaze down through the remark, hoping the true nature of her interest would be kept well hidden.
“Have you a wish to become a country schoolmarm?”
“The thought had crossed my mind . . .”
“You—the daughter of an earl—would presume to begin boarding round at the mercies of a county’s charity or to submit to the cruel insecurities of poverty’s whims? That is tantamount to ruin.”
“What a relief,” Elizabeth allowed, finding her mother’s brand of destitution a far more intriguing prospect than she’d clearly intended. “I believed marriage to be my only option. Please excuse me while I search my reticule for a ruler and chalk.”
“Do not attempt to be clever. That is not the life your father wished for you.”
“And yet this is what it is. Pa-pa is gone. I have no title, no prospects, and an estate in ruin all because I had the great misfortune of being born female.”
“Hush, Elizabeth,” Ma-ma shushed, looking out the window as if the entire countryside were listening in on their plight.
“But, Ma-ma, if we could only go back and open an inquiry into Pa-pa’s death . . . I believe there is more to what happened than a robbery. I told you, there was a man. I saw him standing by, waiting for Pa-pa to emerge from the tea shop, and if we just—”
“Stop this at once!” Ma-ma balled a fist in her lap as her voice caught on the ragged edge of emotion.
The coach jostled over a rut in the road, punctuating the silence her mother’s outburst had cut between them.
Elizabeth had never told her mother about the street urchin’s eyes. She’d never told anyone, in fact. A child wasn’t thought to have any information of grand importance, and though he was an earl, her father’s death was dealt with swiftly and in quite a forgettable manner. The authorities hadn’t any inclination to investigate a man standing on a street corner. A vagrant had been charged. Justice was done, what little there was for them in it.
“We cannot go back, Elizabeth, even should we wish to. We must move forward.”
“But inheritance is of public record. Anyone making a basic inquiry might learn of our present circumstances. We cannot hide the fact that we live in a grand hovel. An estate house with nothing left in it but empty rooms and a skeleton
staff.”
“Who would inquire? Your father’s name still holds merit with these people, even ten years after his death. That name garnered an invitation to this ball, and the few we’ve received this season. But even that good fortune cannot sustain us forever. We must move quickly if we are to secure your future.”
“And if I wish to be more than my father’s name?”
“To be that name is the only hope we possess.”
Reading the pain in her mother’s look, Elizabeth tucked the sketchbook in her reticule and pressed her fingers to her mother’s gloved hand. Straightening her spine, she allowed her face to become a mask of serenity and her posture ready to submit to duty’s demands.
“Forgive me, Ma-ma—it has been a tiring journey. I meant no ill reply. The sketches are away. See? And old ghosts buried. I shall be at my best.”
Sated, Ma-ma squeezed Elizabeth’s hand in return and then released it, hope back in her smile. She watched out the coach window as the horses slowed and they stopped at a grand portico. “I have a feeling this is the night we’ve been waiting for, Elizabeth.”
“I pray you are right.”
Elizabeth brushed her gloved hand over her reticule, feeling the sketchbook that held the old drawing she’d pasted in the back cover, right next to the solid metal of the tiny revolver she’d hidden inside.
Perhaps this was the night she’d been waiting for.
One day Elizabeth would find him.
She’d look into the eyes of a murderer, and though she hadn’t a clue whether she was brave enough, bold enough, or made wretched enough to do so, she’d deal a blow of justice that was long overdue to the man who had ruined their lives. Until then, Elizabeth would hold fast, readying her resolve in subservience to her mother’s game, as long as the invitations came in and her best gown stayed in fashion.
The façade would not crack until it was time. But when it was, Elizabeth would find a way to avenge Pa-pa’s death if it was the last thing she did.
Four
Present day
Framlingham
East Suffolk County, England
Where Dublin had been home, with its iconic blend of Old World tradition and modern sensibilities, the thriving metropolis seemed a world away from the quaint pastoral hamlet that was Framlingham, England.
Bridge Street curved in a long, lazy row past shop fronts of brick and vibrant façades of mint, sapphire, and buttercup yellow. Union Jacks hung from row houses with brightly hued doors, with dog walkers strolling by. Cardinal-red telephone boxes sprouted up every few corners. Tourists nosed about the pubs and a tea shop and dress shop, which seemed as original to the storied old town as anything could be.
The faint hum of chimes sounded in the distance, their melody spreading charm at just after nine o’clock in the morning. Keira looked left and right out the car windows—only shops, sidewalks, October’s colors painted on the trees, and humble row houses greeted them. “Are those church bells?”
“’Tis services at the Church of St. Michael, miss,” said Mr. Farley, a driver of perhaps fifty with peppered hair, a swift nose for side-street navigation, and a decidedly lead foot for the entire journey since he’d picked her up at the airport. She’d emailed Mr. Scott when she arrived, and Mr. Farley showed up right after.
He angled the sleek silver Mercedes around a curve and through tightly packed rows of shops, parked cars, and a brick-walled garden, until the lane suddenly blossomed and the buildings stretched wide again, giving them space to breathe.
Keira checked the map on her phone, pinpointing their location. Brilliant. They were just down the street from where she needed to be.
“It’s just there.” He pointed out the left corner of the windshield as he slowed the car by a clearing of autumn-tipped trees.
A cemetery of ancient limestone grave markers, all white and mossy and tarnished with age, bordered the immense structure of a cathedral looming behind the scene.
“It’s beautiful.” Keira glanced at it. Quickly. So wishing she could linger over it but knowing they must be close, and she’d have to give attention or miss their stop. “If you’ll just pull up on the right. I’m booked in a flat on the second floor of a shop, just before the Theatre Antiques Centre. There’s a red front door and—” Keira noted, even as the driver picked up speed again and the cherry-red portal she suspected was hers whizzed by the open window.
They breezed past the back side of the cemetery, with more of its collection of weathered and weary gravestones, and a bower of trees that gave way to a fork in the road.
“Excuse me, sir. But that was my flat.” She glanced at the map on her phone and hooked her thumb toward the back window. “We passed it.”
“We’re going on to Parham Hill, miss.”
“Parham Hill? Where is that?”
“’Tis not a where but a what—Parham Hill Estate is just down the road a few kilometers from Framlingham Castle. I’ve been instructed to take ye there.”
“And who gave you this instruction? Was it Mr. Scott?”
The man shook his head, as if the name were as foreign as the idea that she’d stay in the flat she’d booked on her own instead of some estate grounds she’d never heard the first thing about.
“Afraid I do not know a Mr. Scott, miss. I’ve been employed by a Mr. Carter Wilmont, says the reservation. Don’t know more than that. All I can say is I’m on the payroll with instructions to retrieve a Miss Foley from the airport and ferry her to the manor house straightaway.”
“There’s a manor?”
He chuckled. Seemed everyone thereabouts must have known of it by his reaction. “Aye. Parham Hill has a manor. And a church, a village, their share of cottage gardens, and a grand estate at that. The manor ’tis rumored to be one of the largest privately owned houses in all of England. And I’m told to deposit you on its front steps or I don’t receive payment. And, miss, I’ve kids in the highbrow school their mother demands, with a sticker shock to match. So I’ll be taking you on as the instructions bid. If that’s not to trouble you, of course.”
“No. That’ll be fine.” Keira backed down with a smile, meeting his hopeful glance in the rearview mirror.
Children in prep school uniforms and knee socks with bright futures at stake melted something inside, forcing Keira to exhale over a prickle of irritation that she was, in effect, being professionally kidnapped at Mr. Wilmont’s request. But it wouldn’t hurt, she supposed, to go on to an estate she was there to survey, have the driver receive his due, and at least find out what she had been enticed to cross the Irish Sea for.
She sat back, watching as they drew up on a little pub on the left.
The Castle House.
It had charm with wide, street-facing windows bordered in country-blue paint and a memorable view of green hills and ancient castle spires just a stone’s throw away. She hoped along with the view they had a warm fire, a thick stew, and a stout cider. If the estate was a dilapidated hovel buried in the East Suffolk countryside, then the Castle House just might have another patron by night’s end.
If this was a sham, Keira was boarding a plane bound for Dublin that night—right after she gave Mr. Scott the what-for he’d deserve.
Between the hollows and hedgerow and an open gate of weathered wood tangled over by ropes of ivy, a hidden road sprang up so fast, she’d have missed it had she not been looking out the window. Instead of venturing on to Framlingham Castle—which loomed large and majestic on the horizon—the driver veered off onto this secluded road, through a heavy gate of stone and scrolled iron, into what Keira presumed were the estate grounds of Parham Hill.
Golden willows waving in the breeze stretched out on either side of the drive. Rock walls bordered the road, their dappled faces fading into a one-lane cobblestone bridge that spanned a rolling brook. She leaned forward, spotting the thatch roof of a humble cottage just peeking out beyond the hedgerow, its moss-green door dirtied to a patina sheen and covered in overgrowth that masked it behi
nd bramble and bush.
And then, as if she could have prevented her breath from being stolen away, the trees leaned back, the grounds expanded in a lazy stretch of green tipped in harvest orange, and the road widened . . .
A construct of beveled stone, leaded glass, and towering stories became the showstopper one might imagine of an old English manor.
Sharp corners cut rows of windows—too many to count at first glance—along the ground floor. Three stories soared high with Corinthian columns bracing the façade. Stairs flanked a grand stone canopy that arched over a cracked and cobbled drive. Gardens hemmed in both sides of the manor in the only weary and overgrown bit of the property she could notice straightaway.
Save for the arrival of carriages and ladies in empire-waist dresses, it was as if Pemberley had fizzled from the pages of Pride and Prejudice and managed to sneak, unannounced, into the realm of real life. But instead of a brooding Mr. Darcy character haunting the manor’s landing, the faded-tee-and-jeans-clad figure of Emory Scott emerged from the front doors, tossing a casual open-hand wave and a smile from the top step.
“So this is it—Parham Hill,” Keira whispered on an exhale.
The driver stopped under the canopy just as the clouds gave way to a soft, misty rain.
She peered up through the fogged backseat window, shoving back Cormac’s reminders to “be on yer guard with the Yank” and “Are ye sure ye want to be doin’ this?” as he’d driven her to the airport. And just as her brother had done when she’d been stubborn and rash and packed up her world to move to New York on a whim, he gave a quick hug and a kiss to her temple, whispering, “Remember, ye always have a home in Dublin,” as his last good-bye.
The longing pricked her heart. Having home fires burning somewhere was a luxury not everyone could afford to cast off. Even if hers might be a flat above a Dublin pub with family dynamics that had tripped them all up for years.
Home is still home.
How could a lavish manor tucked away in the countryside dare attempt to compare with the familiar comfort of that?
The Painted Castle Page 4