After her initial shock, Juliet managed to remember her lines, giving her impassioned speeches and declarations of love about Romeo and the forces working to thwart their union.
Nurse played her part happily. She pretended offence at Mercutio’s insults and conspired with Romeo, acting the part of a saucy older woman with relish.
When, at last, Juliet plunged the knife into her heart, falling lifeless over Romeo’s body, the room applauded, but when Mercutio and Nurse returned to the stage for their bows, the applauses became cheers.
Emmeline grinned, bowing with her coactors, and after a moment, excused herself to change out of the hot, padded dress. When Emmeline returned—with clean teeth and wart removed—Joanna rushed across the room to meet her.
“Oh, Emmeline, I cannot remember the last time I laughed so hard. My sides ache,” Joanna said.
“As do mine,” Lord Chatsworth said, joining them. “An outstanding performance, Miss Newton.”
“Thank you,” Emmeline said. “And I can say the same to each of you. I enjoyed Twelfth Night very much.” She glanced across the room. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I have yet to congratulate my partners for their performances.”
Mr. Rothschild lifted his glass as she approached. “There she is.” His grin was wider than usual. “I believe after tonight, each of us has a new favorite of the Bard’s characters.”
“You surprised us all,” Lord Mather said, smiling. “I doff my feathered velvet cap to you, Miss Newton.”
“Thank you, my lord. Mr. Rothschild.” She inclined her head to each gentleman in turn. “You were both dashing Elizabethan heroes. And I’m so happy we had this opportunity to take the stage together.” She turned toward Miss Stewart. “And you made an excellent Juliet.”
The young lady smiled, but the expression was not a warm one. “Thank you.”
Emmeline was not one to revel in the displeasure of another, but she did feel a bit of satisfaction at the woman’s coolness. The fat, warty nurse had garnered far more praise than the beautiful Juliet.
The celebration continued on late into the night as the actors recounted humorous moments in the planning and execution of the plays. The parlor was filled with laughter and the contentment that came from planning something and seeing it through to fruition. Emmeline thought she had rarely felt in such high spirits.
Miss Stewart excused herself early, and one by one, the gentlemen bid the ladies good night and took their leave.
Emmeline leaned back on the sofa, feeling exhausted but very happy. “What a night this has been,” she said to Mrs. Griffin and Joanna.
“It was all wonderful, was it not?” Joanna said. Her eyes were bright, and Emmeline was certain the wistfulness in her voice could be attributed to the playacted marriage between herself and Lord Chatsworth.
“A splendid night,” Mrs. Griffin said, looking very happy that her plan had gone so well. “And your role as Nurse was my very favorite part of the evening, Miss Newton.”
“It was a very diverting activity,” Emmeline said. “Thank you for arranging it. And you must thank your staff for all of their assistance. They went beyond the call of duty to make everything just perfect.”
“I shall, certainly,” Mrs. Griffin said.
Joanna was leaned back on the sofa as well but turned toward Emmeline and gave her hand a squeeze. “You were remarkably forbearing today, Emmeline.”
“How so?”
“Arthur. I know you and my cousin have had disagreements. It was very sporting of you to consent to being on his team.”
“I didn’t mind in the least,” she said, realizing that she meant it. She’d actually enjoyed spending the day with Lord Mather, something she would never have predicted. “He was sporting as well. Both men were. A romantic tragedy was not either of their first selections.”
“I cannot believe you convinced my cousin to wear a doublet and hose.” Joanna grinned, showing her dimples.
Mrs. Griffin giggled. “We simply must bring back that fashion for men. I thought it very cute.”
“And the feathered caps!” Joanna put a hand over her mouth to quiet her laugh.
Emmeline laughed as well. The lateness of the night had made them all silly. “It was not I who convinced them. Miss Stewart picked the costumes.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Griffin said. She and Joanna shared a knowing look.
“They do make a fine-looking couple,” Joanna said.
“I knew they were well suited,” Mrs. Griffin agreed, looking very satisfied in her matchmaking endeavor. “And I sensed an attraction between them that was more than simply playacting. Didn’t you think?”
“They did perform well together.” Emmeline’s contented bubble began to deflate.
Mrs. Griffin leaned close, raising and lowering her brows. “Perhaps they weren’t acting after all.”
“Perhaps not.” Emmeline tried to smile.
“Are you all right, dear?” Joanna squeezed her hand again. “You look rather pale.”
“I am suddenly tired,” she said.
Mrs. Griffin sat straighter in her chair. “I think we all are tired. Such an eventful day, wasn’t it? And our efforts may have produced a previously unrealized attraction.” She glanced pointedly at Joanna. “Or more than one. I’d say it was very worth it, wouldn’t you?”
“Absolutely,” Joanna said. She stood and held out a hand to help Emmeline rise as well.
Emmeline’s throat was scratchy, and she felt wrung out. She smiled and nodded at the matchmakers’ pleasure in their success, bidding the women good night and walking toward her bedchamber. She wasn’t certain the reason for her discomfort, but she definitely didn’t want to examine the feeling too closely tonight, fearing what she might find.
Chapter 7
Four days later, Mrs. Griffin must have considered the party suitably recovered from the excitement of dramatic charades because she announced during dinner that she had an especially delightful activity planned for the following day.
“Make certain to get a good night’s sleep and eat a hearty breakfast,” she’d advised. “You’ll want your strength tomorrow.”
When the party assembled in front of the manor house the next morning, Griff and his wife stood before them. A weathered sea chest sat on the gravel drive behind the couple and, atop it, a small wooden box.
Griff put his hand on a pistol tucked into a sash around his waist. He acted as though he was being tolerant of his wife’s latest scheme, but Arthur recognized enthusiasm in his friend’s eyes. Whatever she had planned, Griff was excited for it.
Mrs. Griffin, on the other hand, looked as if she were positively going to burst with anticipation. She clasped her hands together, smiling widely and bounced on the balls of her feet.
“What is it?” Lord Chatsworth asked, looking unable to stop a smile when he saw his hostess’s grin. “What is your secret? Are we to put on another play?”
“No, my lord.” Mrs. Griffin answered. “It is something completely different, I assure you.
“It’s not hunting, is it?” Rothschild asked. “I think there are still a few birds we’ve not managed to shoot yet.”
“You mustn’t keep us in suspense,” Miss Stewart said. She looked at Rothschild with an irritated expression and opened her parasol.
“Maybe we should go hunting instead of putting everyone through all this fuss,” Griff said, teasing his wife.
Mrs. Griffin swatted him on the arm. “Stop it.” She opened the small box and took out three envelopes. “We are dividing into groups again. Smaller groups today. Miss Stewart, you’re with Lord Mather. Miss Newton with Mr. Rothschild, and Miss Presley with Lord Chatsworth.”
The party shuffled around until the pairs stood beside one another.
“It is you and me again, my lord,” Miss Stewart said, tipping her head to the side.
He glanced at the other pairs. Chatsworth and Joanna looked perfectly happy to be together. And Miss Newton and Rothschild seemed content enough. A bit of heat rose in his throat at seeing the two exchange smiles. The feeling came as a surprise. Would he rather have Miss Newton as a partner? They would likely just argue the entire time. He attributed the feeling to missing out on another morning of hunting. The last few days had proven too rainy for much outdoor activity.
He studied the sky. This morning, the weather was warmer, but the dark clouds in the distance looked ominous.
“Today’s activity is a race.” Mrs. Griffin handed each of the pairs an envelope with their names on it and gave instructions not to open it until told to do so.
“Excellent,” Mr. Rothschild said. “Sorry to disappoint you other chaps, but we already know who’s the fastest.”
“I told you he’d say that,” Griff muttered to his wife.
“You did indeed,” she replied, and then she turned back to the group. “This race will not be won by speed alone. You will need to use your wits, solve puzzles, find clues, and do it all before your competitors.”
The others shared glances, looking intrigued.
Arthur studied his envelope and nodded before giving it to Miss Stewart. The game did sound interesting.
“And is there a prize for the victors?” Chatsworth asked.
Mrs. Griffin stepped back around the large trunk, the grin reappearing. “The team who finds this treasure chest first . . .” She motioned for Griff to open the box.
The six competitors leaned close to see what was inside, then burst into laughter.
Griff and his wife pulled a man’s and lady’s hat from inside the chest. Each was styled in an old-fashioned manner, with wide brims and gaudy colors. The headpieces were extravagantly decorated with flowers and feathers and ribbons.
“The winners shall wear the spoils of their victory!” Mrs. Griffin said, holding up the lady’s hat. “And for the remainder of the day, they may only be referred to as Lord and Lady Toodledoo.”
“An excellent prize,” Chatsworth said, slapping his thigh. “I believe we shall look smashing as Lord and Lady Toodledoo, shan’t we, Miss Presley?”
Joanna smiled, dimples showing. “Indeed, we shall.”
“Come along, then,” Mrs. Griffin said. “The race begins at the pond.”
The eight of them started down the gravel path and across the wildflower meadow to the pond, chattering happily. Miss Newton was telling something to Rothschild that Arthur couldn’t quite hear. And Arthur felt that heat in his throat again. This time, it left behind a bitter taste.
Miss Stewart walked slower than the others, and Arthur reduced his pace to match hers. “Are you quite all right?” he asked, seeing that they were getting farther behind the rest of the group. Not a good indicator of their success in the race.
“I am not used to walking so far,” Miss Stewart said. “My shoes are not cut out for trekking through the countryside.”
He offered his arm, reminding himself that he could still enjoy the race, whether he won it or not—or had a chance of winning—or had a partner who was willing to actually participate.
They crested a hill and joined the others near the bank of the pond. Three rowboats were spaced out in front of them in the water, tied to posts on the shore.
“Is everyone ready?” Mrs. Griffin asked.
The competitors gave their assent, glancing at one another.
Rothschild grinned, cracking his knuckles.
Griff took the pistol from his waist.
“Once you hear the signal, you may open your envelopes and read your first clue,” Miss Griffin announced. “On your marks, get set, and . . .” She plugged her ears.
The others did the same.
Griff shot the pistol into the air.
A burst of energy moved through the group as they tore open the clues.
Miss Stewart unfolded the paper from their envelope, and Arthur leaned close to read.
Row with all your might
On the far side, locate the lady in white.
The others were already running toward the rowboats.
“Come along, Miss Stewart.” Arthur hurried to a boat, untying it. He put one foot inside, holding out a hand to assist his partner.
She made her way to the boat much more slowly than he would have liked, stepping carefully over rocks and around puddles.
Arthur stepped out of the boat and back up the beach, taking her elbow and helping her over the uneven ground.
Miss Stewart hesitated as they got near to the water’s edge. “Oh, I shall get mud on my shoes.”
Arthur let out a breath. He hurried back to the water and pulled the boat up onto the shore as far as he could. Looking across the pond, he saw the other two boats were already underway.
Having a nice dry path, Miss Stewart at last let him help her into the boat. She sat on the bench, holding her parasol as if they were out for a pleasant day on the water.
Arthur glanced back at Griff, shaking his head.
His friend smirked.
Arthur shoved the boat with his shoulder, sliding it back into the pond, and then climbed inside, sloshing water into the bottom with his wet boots.
Miss Stewart grimaced.
Arthur ignored her and turned to take the seat facing the rear. Digging the oars into the water, he leaned back to get the boat underway, then developed a rhythm in a hurry, but they were still behind the others.
“I wonder what this means. The lady in white,” Miss Stewart said, indicating the paper with the clue.
“A statue.” Arthur spoke through his heavy breaths. “At the cemetery on the other side of the pond.” Griff obviously had a hand in this clue. Arthur didn’t tell Miss Stewart that as children, they were convinced the statue was haunted, and they would creep out to the old cemetery on foggy nights to frighten one another. She would probably insist he turn the boat around.
He wondered briefly if Rothschild was telling the story to Miss Newton. He imagined the conversation and thought the young lady might be, at this very moment, making plans to bring the group back on a dark night to see for herself whether the rumor was true.
By the time they reached the far side of the pond and pulled the boat ashore, the others were nowhere to be seen. Arthur helped Miss Stewart out of the boat, and they hurried over the hill and through the trees.
The cemetery was just as he remembered. Quiet and eerie. A low wrought-iron fence surrounded a grouping of headstones—some broken, others tilted or fallen over—whose carvings had long since washed away. In the center of the graveyard was a statue of a woman carved out of white stone. She wore a robe, one hand outstretched, her features weathered. A single envelope sat at her feet, held in place with a rock.
Arthur handed it to Miss Stewart, who read the next clue.
The building is kept warm
No matter the season.
Herbs and flowers are grown here
For that very reason.
“A hothouse?” she guessed.
Arthur nodded. “I think that is correct.” And it would explain why they did not pass any of the others when they came from the boats. “The gardener keeps a hothouse near his cottage.” He pointed. “In that direction.”
“And is it nearby?” Miss Stewart asked.
“Just a short walk,” he said. “But we should make haste, or we will fall too far behind the others.”
“My shoes,” she reminded him as they left the cemete
ry.
They continued at a slow pace, in spite of Arthur’s attempts to speed up. Miss Stewart seemed to have no drive to compete, which frustrated him to no end. Finally, the hothouse came into view. Mr. Harms, the stablemaster stood outside, holding the bridles of two horses. One animal was equipped with a lady’s sidesaddle.
Arthur greeted the man, noticing that his back was more stooped than he remembered and his face more wrinkled. Another reminder of the time that had passed since he’d been at Griffin Park.
“Yer clue’s inside,” Mr. Harms said.
“And the others?” Arthur asked.
“Yer the last,” he said, glancing in the direction that Arthur assumed they had gone. “But ye could catch ’em if yer quick.”
That was all the motivation Arthur needed. Perhaps there was still a chance. He held open the door of the hothouse for Miss Stewart.
She stepped inside, taking down her parasol. “Oh, it is so humid. My hair will simply be ruined.”
Arthur had stopped caring about her complaints a half hour ago. He moved quickly, searching through the building for the next envelope. Through the large windows, he could see the clouds were gathering. Hopefully, they wouldn’t get caught in the rain. He didn’t think he could bear to listen to Miss Stewart’s complaints if that were to happen. Nor could he endure another story about her cats.
He found the envelope at last, among the pots of herbs. A small pair of shears lay on it. Though he was tempted to open it himself, he called out for Miss Stewart to join him before reading it.
An herb sacred to the Druids,
Ancient witches used it in their charms.
If you choose correctly and present it to your mount,
You’ll be given leave to ride by Mr. Harms.
“What does it mean?” Miss Stewart asked. “Who is Mr. Harms? And what are we supposed to choose?”
“Mr. Harms is the stablemaster,” Arthur said. Hadn’t she heard him greet the man less than two minutes earlier? “And I think we’re supposed to choose an herb to feed the horses.”
Emmeline Page 6