Glory and the Rake

by Deborah Simmons

  ‘Thank you, my dear, but I had a servant fetch me some yesterday, although I wasn’t quite up to an outing myself. I’m so glad that the Pump Room is open again, though I understand there was some trouble?’

  ‘Yes,’ Glory said. As she explained about the attack upon the building, the older woman’s expression turned grim.

  ‘It makes me ashamed to live here,’ Mrs Goodhew said, shaking her head. ‘What has the world come to?’

  She sank into silence then, as if in contemplation, until Westfield spoke. ‘My mother said that you might be able to tell us who could have a grudge against the Suttons or the well.’

  ‘You are asking that of a woman who rarely leaves her house?’ Mrs Goodhew asked, but then she smiled. ‘I have been around a while, as they say, and I do try to keep up as best I can. Of course, I know all the old families. But I can’t say the same of a few of the interlopers, like that new doctor, who earns no favour.’

  Although they talked for some time, Mrs Goodhew refused to suggest any particular person was responsible. ‘I can name you some who aren’t among the best people, disgruntled residents who might blame the Suttons for the decline of the village, but I don’t see what damaging the Pump Room would prove.’

  She shifted in her chair and eyed the duke. ‘Have you considered that some of the boys might have had too much to drink and decided to smash up the place on a whim?’

  He nodded. ‘But for all the damage, the perpetrators were quiet and contained. They didn’t break any windows, for instance.’

  Glory sucked in a breath at the thought of the cost of replacing the glass, as well as the danger the elements would pose to freshly painted walls and parqueted floors. And she was thankful there hadn’t been more damage.

  ‘How much did your father tell you about Queen’s Well?’ Mrs Goodhew asked, fixing Glory with her sharp gaze.

  ‘Nothing,’ Glory murmured automatically, only to recognise how odd her answer must sound. ‘He died some years ago.’

  ‘Yet, while he was alive, he didn’t speak of your family’s heritage?’ Mrs Goodhew looked puzzled.

  Glory had never given much thought to her father’s reticence. After all, he had not been a man of leisure and had spent most of his time building his businesses. He had told Glory and Thad stories, but mostly about his life in London or with their mother. Now, Glory realized, with no little wonder, that his past, as well as his wife’s, had never been discussed.

  Mrs Goodhew sighed. ‘Well, I suppose it’s not surprising, considering the circumstances when he left. The fire, you see.’

  While Glory listened, rapt, the elderly woman spoke about the spa’s final night and how Glory’s heroic grandfather had saved lives at the expense of his own, how Sutton House was sold, the cottage shut up and the family gone. ‘No wonder your father never returned,’ Mrs Goodhew said.

  Glory drew in a shaky breath at the first-hand account. ‘Perhaps the past was simply too painful for him to share,’ she said.

  ‘Obviously, the tragedy impacted the village, since the major source of revenue was abruptly cut off,’ Westfield said. ‘Perhaps the revival has opened old wounds.’

  Mrs Goodhew shook her head, as though mystified. ‘It’s not as though the Suttons set fire to their own livelihood. They gained nothing, but lost a husband and father.’

  ‘Does anyone know what started the blaze?’ Westfield asked.

  Again, Mrs Goodhew shook her head.

  ‘But the buildings that were destroyed were all owned by the Suttons?’ the duke said.

  The elderly woman nodded.

  Westfield leaned back in his chair. ‘Miss Sutton’s aunt mentioned a curse?’

  ‘A curse?’ Mrs Goodhew echoed.

  Glory shook her head, embarrassed. ‘My aunt is rather fanciful. She says she’s heard rumours that Queen’s Well brings misfortune.’

  ‘Well, perhaps such things are being said now, but I certainly never heard them before the tragedy, and the well had a long and reasonably successful history, one that you can take pride in,’ Mrs Goodhew added, eyeing Glory directly.

  ‘Thank you,’ Glory said. ‘I’m afraid my aunt is the superstitious sort. And I’m sure that many odd stories have grown up over the years, including romances attributed to the waters.’ Glory instantly wanted to recall her words when she realised that Westfield was seated next to her, and she flushed in anticipation of a sardonic comment.

  But it was Mrs Goodhew who spoke. ‘Well, now, that I have heard about,’ she said with a sly smile.

  Glory blinked in surprise. ‘But it’s…absurd.’

  Mrs Goodhew laughed. ‘Whether you believe in them or not, the powers are part of the well’s legend, an open secret among those of us who remember the old days, just like the Queen’s Gift.’

  ‘The Queen’s Gift,’ Westfield echoed. ‘What is that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mrs Goodhew said, shaking her head. ‘No one does, I suspect. The tale is that Queen Elizabeth was so taken with the spa that she presented something to the well, or perhaps its owners, probably some fancy bauble that was sold long ago.’

  The elderly woman paused to study Glory. ‘Unless you know, Miss Sutton.’

  Glory shook her head. ‘I haven’t been able to learn much about the history of the spa, so this is the first I’ve heard of it. And we certainly don’t own anything that would qualify as a royal treasure or trinket.’

  ‘Have you looked through the cottage?’ Mrs Goodhew asked. ‘Unlike the house, it remained in the family, so there might be old records, ledgers, letters or the like tucked away in the cellar or attic.’

  Glory blinked in surprise. She had been so focused on the Pump Room and other renovations that she had not bothered to search the cottage thoroughly. What little she knew about the spa had come from her father’s papers in London, but they had been few. A place that had operated for centuries must have generated more records, if they had not gone missing over the years.

  Lost in thought, Glory did not become aware of the silence until Westfield caught her eye and put a finger to his lips. For an instant, all she could do was stare, enthralled by the sight of the long digit pressed against his mouth. But then he inclined his head toward their hostess and Glory followed his gaze, only to see that Mrs Goodhew had nodded off.

  Rising to their feet as quietly as possible, they took their leave under the watchful eyes of the housekeeper; Glory was glad to step from the close room into the fresh air. A brisk breeze heralded rainclouds, which would do little for business at the Pump Room, especially since most of the villagers had partaken yesterday. But Glory was not disappointed, for the weather gave her an excuse to pursue Mrs Goodhew’s suggestion rather than join Thad there.

  Instead of strolling languidly in the sun as they had earlier, she and Westfield hurried into the gusting wind and cut short the discussion of their visit, which was just as well. Earlier, Glory had seen a side of Westfield so charming and witty that she could well believe his reputation as an excellent host and favoured guest. And never in her sheltered life had she accompanied such a man, let alone been the focus of his attention.

  Obviously, working with the duke was far preferable to working against him. But Glory was still wary, if not of the man then of herself, especially since her attacks of girlish giddiness seemed to be increasing. If that’s what they were. Glory was afraid to consider any other explanation for the heart palpitations and blushes that struck her without warning.

  It was with some relief that Glory stopped at the cottage gate and thanked the duke again for his escort. ‘I think I shall heed your advice and let Thad manage for a while longer,’ she said, turning towards the house. ‘And I have much that I must do here.’ That was true enough. She had bills, ledgers and correspondence that required her attention sooner or later.

  But she was more likely to get to them later. And she had the feeling that Westfield knew full well what she intended because that dark brow of his shot upwards in query. For a moment
Glory thought he might invite himself in or ask to join her, and the notion of spending more time with the man, perhaps cooped up together looking through the attic, brought on another bout of heat and pounding pulses.

  But, to her relief, Westfield did not dispute her claim. ‘You plan on staying in the rest of the day, I take it?’ he asked.

  When she nodded, he bowed his head and Glory took the opportunity to escape into the cottage. Shutting the door behind her, she removed her bonnet with shaking fingers, half-expecting the duke to follow, thrusting aside the heavy wood to fill the doorway behind her.

  With a sigh, Glory shook her head at such fancies. Whatever she had once imagined, Westfield was a decent man who was acting as magistrate in order to help her. He was not about to break down the door and ravish her in her own home. Drawing in a sharp breath, Glory flushed at the memory of their first meeting, when he had forced her against his hard body…

  The appearance of their maid, Cassie, brought Glory from her thoughts and she handed her hat to the girl. ‘How is my aunt?’ she said, returning to more mundane matters.

  ‘She went out, miss.’

  ‘What? Where?’ Glory asked, for Phillida had taken to bed earlier with a sick headache.

  ‘She didn’t say, miss.’

  Glory frowned. More than likely, having no audience to listen to her woes, she had taken herself off to the Pump Room to bother Thad. Glory nearly put her bonnet back on to head back out, but she remembered Westfield’s words. Let him handle it himself.

  Perhaps she should, Glory thought, for she was anxious to see what she could find in the cottage and could do it far better without any interruptions. Unlike Westfield, Glory doubted that she would discover any clues to the recent attack upon Queen’s Well. But she hoped to learn more about the spa’s history and mysteries, including this supposed gift from Elizabeth.

  Climbing the stairs to the upper storey, Glory soon found the narrow steps that led up under the eaves. At the top, she pushed open the door, only to choke on a whirl of dust. It seemed that the caretakers who had looked after the property over the years had not bothered to venture here.

  A loud crack of thunder made Glory jump, and she realised that she should have brought a lantern. The few windows were dark and grimy, and rain began to pelt against them loudly. Glory called down the steps for Cassie, but she was not surprised that the girl did not respond. She was probably in the kitchen, chatting with the cook.

  Thad had complained that they should have more servants, but the cottage was so small that Glory thought it would be too crowded. Now she wasn’t so sure. She turned, intending to fetch a lantern herself, along with an apron to keep her skirts clean, but an opened crate caught her eye.

  Who had left the lid ajar—and when? Glory glanced around, relieved to see that a thick carpet of dust appeared to cover everything, apparently undisturbed. But she wondered how much of the original contents remained. After what had happened to the Pump Room, she considered herself lucky that the place had not been rifled long ago.

  Stepping towards the crate, Glory knelt and peered inside, but it was too dark to see what lay there. She pushed at the heavy lid, the noise loud and grating in the stillness of the space. Still unable to tell what lay within the shadows, she lifted a hand to reach inside only to pause, uncertain. There might be rodents or remnants of…what?

  Frowning at her own temerity, Glory lifted her hand only to pause again at a low sound. Had she heard the creak of a step? ‘Cassie?’ she called out. But there was no answer. Suddenly, the cosy space under the eaves took on a more sinister cast, the linens that covered some of the items looming large enough to hide an intruder.

  Glory swallowed hard and wished she had fetched the lantern, if only to check for footprints in the dust. She told herself that she was perfectly safe in her own home, with two servants as company, but another creak made her duck behind the crate.

  It was probably just the old structure, full of quirks, or the rain and wind that lashed at the roof. Perhaps even a leak might be responsible for what she was hearing. But still Glory wished she had her pistol and vowed to get it back from Westfield. There was no reason for him to keep the weapon from her, especially after what had happened at the Pump Room.

  ‘Hello?’

  Loosing a strangled cry at the sound of a voice, Glory fell backwards, bumping against something that rattled precariously before crashing to the floor. As she scrambled to her feet, Glory heard a high-pitched scream, followed by a wail and a thump coming from the stairway. Snatching up the first thing that she could, she hurried towards the door where she found Phillida lying in a heap. Apparently, her aunt truly had fainted this time.

  ‘Did you kill her?’ A shocked voice rose from below, and Glory looked down the steps to see Cassie standing at the bottom, a horrified expression upon her face. ‘I didn’t see anything, miss, not a thing,’ the girl said as she backed away.

  It took Glory a good minute to realise she was standing at the top of the steps, holding a cricket bat over her head, while the prone body of her aunt lay at her feet.

  ‘It’s the curse, I tell you,’ Phillida whimpered. She was tucked into bed, a dish of tea in her hands and a plate of her favourite biscuits nearby. The wary maid finally had been convinced to fetch the hartshorn, and between the two of them they had managed to get Phillida settled, with no apparent injuries. Glory was thankful Cassie had not fled her employment—or sent for the magistrate. She had no desire to explain the incident to Westfield, who might never return her pistol if he thought she was assaulting her relatives.

  Already the day seemed a long one, and Glory reached up to rub the tension from the back of her neck. ‘There is no curse, Aunt,’ she said.

  ‘Then how do you explain my tumble?’ Phillida demanded in a wavering voice.

  ‘You scared me, and I scared you,’ Glory answered succinctly.

  ‘You keep telling me how much better this place is than London, but I never took a fall there,’ Phillida said, with a sniff. ‘I was never frightened in my own home.’

  Personally, Glory thought it was a miracle that Phillida had not been hurt before, considering her penchant for swooning. But having been the cause of this accident, she was not about to argue.

  ‘It’s all my fault,’ Glory said. ‘I was startled, that’s all.’ And frightened in my own home.

  Phillida sniffed again. ‘Perhaps there’s a reason your father never returned here.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Glory said. ‘He was too busy with his London businesses to resume the spa’s operations.’

  ‘Was he?’ Phillida gave her a tremulous look. ‘He could have sent someone, hired a man of business, yet he never did. He never wanted a thing to do with this well. How do you explain that?’

  ‘Is that what he told you?’ Glory asked in surprise.

  Phillida glanced away and shook her head. ‘He never spoke of it.’

  Glory frowned at the confirmation of her own suspicions. ‘What of Mother? Did she tell you anything?’ Surely he would have discussed his past with his wife.

  Phillida shook her head. ‘He was probably trying to protect her.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Glory said. ‘If there was anything to fear at Queen’s Well, you can be sure Father would have warned us against it.’

  ‘Perhaps he intended to, but did not have the time,’ Phillida said. ‘The man could hardly expect to be struck down so quickly, in the prime of life.’

  But their father knew how capricious fate could be after the death of their mother. If it was important, he would have taken the time, Glory thought. Hadn’t he taught her how to defend herself? Suddenly that simple act took on ominous overtones, but Glory dismissed them as foolish. London was far more dangerous than Philtwell, and her father was the sort of man who put his affairs in order. If there was a threat associated with the well, he would have left something behind, a note among his papers or a letter with his solicitor.

  ‘No doubt, he feared to talk of it be
cause of…the curse,’ Phillida whispered, as though some nameless, formless entity would strike if she spoke too loudly.

  ‘Father didn’t discuss Queen’s Well because his history here was too painful, and that’s probably why he didn’t return either—to the scene of his father’s death and his mother’s despair.’

  When Phillida looked as though she would argue, Glory cut her off. ‘There is no curse,’ she said. ‘Westfield and I spoke with one of the residents who is quite conversant in the lore of the waters, and she has never heard of such a thing. It’s just another ploy to drive us away.’

  As soon as she spoke the words, Glory realised they might well be true. The attack upon the Pump Room, the slow workers who impeded her progress, and the rumours, untraceable to any source, all seemed to point to one thing.

  Someone didn’t want Queen’s Well to re-open.

  The next day dawned cloudy and dreary; Glory was not as enthusiastic about going to the Pump Room as she should have been. She was more eager to return to the attic, but she didn’t want to send Thad alone again, and Phillida, having recovered from her mishap, was off to visit the duchess.

  They were all heading out of the cottage when Westfield appeared at the gate, and Glory’s heart began to pound accordingly. She wondered whether he intended to come by every morning, a prospect that was both delightful and disturbing. Just how often did he plan on working with her? And what possible work could they do?

  Glory flushed at the notions that ran through her head; while Thad and Phillida greeted the nobleman, she hung back, uncomfortable under the sweep of a dark gaze that missed nothing. Did he know the effect he had upon her? Glory tried her best to appear indifferent, but she could not stop the flush that stole over her cheeks.

  Although she suspected the duke was well used to adoration, Glory had thought herself above such nonsense. However, despite all her accomplishments, it seemed she was just as giddy as any other female, a discovery that brought a frown to her lips.