The Master of Heathcrest Hall

by Galen Beckett

  Farrolbrook gave him a wan smile. “Very well, if you think it would be of use.”

  Rafferdy still didn’t understand why Farrolbrook was helping him. Perhaps it was to have some revenge against the order that had so callously used and abandoned him. Or perhaps it was for some other reason. Either way, Rafferdy would take such aid as he could garner.

  “Yes, I do think it would be useful.”

  “Very well, then.” Farrolbrook took up a cane that leaned against the bench and, with its benefit, rose to his feet. “I will not bother to say farewell, as I will see you soon enough. And I believe I may have something important to tell you then. I will soon know for certain.”

  He gave a nod, then moved away down the path. Such was his slow pace, and the frilled, outmoded nature of his dark blue coat, that but for his gold hair he could have been mistaken for an elderly lord out for a toddle.

  It was only after he was out of sight that Rafferdy realized Farrolbrook had left his sketchbook on the bench, still open to the page he had been drawing upon. Well, Rafferdy would have a chance to return it to him soon. He took up the book.

  As he did, a shiver passed through him despite the warmness of the air. The open pages of the sketchbook were filled with a profusion of dark, crooked lines—a mirror to the braided branches of the wisteria tree that hung over the bench. Only the drawing was anything but an idyllic garden scene. Rather, the branches seemed to writhe and pulse across the pages, pushing in from the edges toward the center. There, a small figure rendered all in black stood alone within the small circle of white, its hands thrown up as if in one last gesture to hold back the encroachment of the black tangle.

  A compulsion came over Rafferdy, to turn the pages and see what other visions were contained within the sketchbook. Instead, he snapped the book shut, tucked it into his coat pocket, and departed the grotto. There was only one mystery he wished to consider at the moment.

  And that was where to get a drink before going to supper at Lady Marsdel’s that night.

  EVENING TOOK the city unawares, as the sun made a series of sudden lurches into the west. So it was, pressed for time, that Rafferdy was forced to present himself at Lady Marsdel’s abode on Fairhall Street without the prior benefit of a whiskey or two. His desire to dull his senses, however, was quickly removed when he entered the parlor. As if directed by some preternatural instinct, the first thing his gaze fell upon in that vast room was the very thing he had wanted to see most.

  Mrs. Quent smiled at him from her position standing beside the pianoforte some distance away, where Mrs. Baydon sat at the bench, but said nothing; for of course it was not her parlor, and it was not she whom he must greet first.

  “You appear to be having some difficulty in locating me, Lord Rafferdy,” came Lady Marsdel’s echoing tones from across the room. “Allow me to aid you, then—I am over here.”

  Rafferdy went past the pianoforte and approached Lady Marsdel. She sat in a large chair at the far end of the parlor, near the fireplace and the old stone sphinx—the one which Lord Marsdel had brought back after his time in the far south of the Empire. On a pillow on her lap was a bit of white fluff he presumed was either a dog or a ball of yarn her ladyship was attempting to untangle. He gave a smart bow. As he did, a growl emanated from within the ball of fluff.

  A dog, then.

  “Good evening, your ladyship,” he said, rising. “And thank you for directing me. Such is the great size of your parlor that I have a tendency to get turned around in it.”

  “Your head is turned, I suppose, but I somehow doubt it is the size of my parlor that has done so,” Lady Marsdel said, her eyes narrowing.

  Before Rafferdy could consider what these words meant, Lord Baydon spoke up.

  “You are just in time, Lord Rafferdy,” Lady Marsdel’s brother said, his voice thin and reedy but still containing its usual jovial tone. “My daughter-in-law was about to perform another song on the pianoforte.”

  Mr. Baydon gave the broadsheet he was reading a snap to remove a crease. “A song—is that what that last exercise was meant to be? I thought Mrs. Baydon was attempting to discover every out-of-tune key on the pianoforte, and having great luck at it.”

  “I believe it is your ears that are out of tune, Mr. Baydon,” his wife said. She looked very pretty as she sat upright on the bench at the pianoforte, her golden hair falling in ringlets over her shoulders. She was wearing a blue gown that matched her eyes. “Perhaps you might have them adjusted the same way the strings of the pianoforte were done recently.”

  “I assure you, my ears are working very well,” Mr. Baydon said.

  Mrs. Baydon affected a pretty frown. “Well, either my playing or your hearing is off. We cannot both of us be right in the matter.”

  “Perhaps you can at that,” Rafferdy said, moving to the pianoforte. “After all, given their remarkable size, it’s quite possible that Mr. Baydon’s ears perceive tones or vibrations that are beneath the notice of the rest of us—aside from her ladyship’s dog, perhaps.”

  Mr. Baydon glowered over the top of his newspaper, while Mrs. Baydon let out a laugh.

  “Yes, perhaps that’s it, Mr. Rafferdy,” she said brightly. “My husband is very handsome, of course, but he does have curiously large ears.”

  Being at once insulted and complimented by his wife, it was evident Mr. Baydon didn’t know how to respond. Instead he raised his broadsheet once more and muttered something unintelligible behind it.

  Mrs. Baydon smiled up at Rafferdy. “I’m so glad you were able to come tonight, as we have been greatly in need of amusement of late. We have been deprived of that which most delights us.”

  “So have I,” Rafferdy said, though it was not at Mrs. Baydon that he looked. Instead, his gaze went beyond her, to Mrs. Quent.

  She stood on the other side of the pianoforte, wearing a simple but very lovely gown of pale yellow that complemented her green eyes. Her hair, which was a lighter shade of gold than Mrs. Baydon’s, was worn more loosely and naturally, in a way that suggested it had just been stirred by some passing zephyr. It could only make him think of when they were at the Evengrove, and the way the trees had lifted her up to their crowns and carried her away.

  “And good evening to you as well, Lord Rafferdy,” Mrs. Quent said, smiling at him.

  He realized he had been staring, and he gave a quick bow to cover up the fact. “Good evening, Lady Quent. I trust your husband and sisters are well?”

  “Yes, they are all well.”

  “And yourself?”

  It seemed her smile faltered for just a moment. “Yes, I’m quite well, thank you.”

  A note of concern sounded within him, but before he could wonder what he perceived in her expression, Lady Marsdel was addressing him again.

  “Come, Lord Rafferdy, sit beside me and allow Mrs. Baydon to finish her recital so that we may proceed to supper.”

  “Are we not awaiting any others?” Rafferdy said as he turned around, for their number was but six at present.

  The coating of powder upon Lady Marsdel’s face could not conceal the way her wrinkles deepened as she pursed her lips. “We are all for the evening. There is hardly anyone of worth left in the city to invite, for so many have gone to their estates in the south and east. We might have been more, for an invitation was extended to Lady Quent’s people, but I have been informed that they declined to come.”

  “Sir Quent told me to extend his sincere regrets,” Mrs. Quent said—a bit breathlessly, as if she felt real distress. “His work at the Citadel has detained him beyond his control. And as I mentioned, my sisters were greatly disappointed they could not attend, but they had previously accepted an engagement.”

  “One they might easily have broken, I am sure, to attend dinner at a lady’s house.”

  “Unless, of course, they were invited to a countess’s house,” Rafferdy said with affected innocence. This won him both a glare and a growl from the direction of her ladyship, which let him know he had score
d a point. “Besides, why should they come here? Wherever it was they were invited, they are far more likely to meet eligible men there than they would here.”

  “I am sure you are quite eligible, Lord Rafferdy. But perhaps you mean they would be more likely to meet notable men.”

  Rafferdy winced. Now it was Lady Marsdel who had scored a point. Rafferdy had recently heard whispers at Assembly that Sir Quent might be made into an earl if he was confirmed as lord inquirer; and if Rafferdy had heard such a rumor, then it was certain Lady Marsdel had as well. If it was indeed the case that Sir Quent would be raised up to an earl, then it was far from impossible to think the Miss Lockwells would each marry a lord, or even better.

  Rafferdy shifted on the sofa, suddenly finding his seat uncomfortable. The thought that Lady Quent’s sisters might soon be above him was not one he relished. But why was that the case? It was not as if he had an eye upon either of the Miss Lockwells.

  “Please, Mrs. Baydon, play your song,” he said through clenched teeth.

  She did so, and any sour notes she might have struck were only echoed by the ones already sounding in his head.

  At last Mrs. Baydon’s exercises upon the pianoforte were concluded, and it was time to proceed to the dining room for supper. Despite the benefit of a cane, Lord Baydon struggled to rise from his chair next to the fireplace, and Rafferdy went to him to lend a hand.

  Lord Baydon had been frequently ill over the last half year. What had at first seemed only to be a mere head cold had progressively worsened. As far as Rafferdy knew, the doctors had not determined the nature of the older lord’s illness, though he suffered from a general weakness of the body, and he was prone to chills and spasms. As a result, he had been able to attend sessions of the Hall of Magnates only occasionally, and it had been far more than a month since Rafferdy had last seen him there.

  “Thank you, my good sir,” Lord Baydon said once he had gained his feet with Rafferdy’s help. “I find I have more difficulty rising from a comfortable seat than a hard one these days.”

  “Then it is assured you will have no issue gaining your feet when next you come to the Hall of Magnates,” Rafferdy said, “for you will find the benches just as uncomfortable to sit upon as ever.”

  Rafferdy paused, expecting the older lord to pronounce that he was certain he would be at Assembly during the very next session. It had ever been Lord Baydon’s habit to adopt the best possible view, to constantly assume that good things would happen rather than ill.

  Only this time Lord Baydon shook his head. “No, you will have to cast your votes without me, Lord Rafferdy. I do not think I will be going back to Assembly soon.”

  This response seemed greatly out of character, but Rafferdy attempted not to display his surprise. “I am sorry that you are still feeling so unwell. This illness has no doubt been a great bother to you.”

  “No, it is no bother,” the older man said quietly, and blew a breath through his gray mustache. “Rather, it was the least I could do. I could not go with them, after all.”

  As he spoke, Lord Baydon looked not at Rafferdy, but rather at the sphinx that crouched next to the fireplace. The stone figure was a twin to the one that dwelled in the study at Asterlane; like Lord Marsdel, Rafferdy’s father had brought it back from the south as a memento of his time in the Empire. Its stone surface was worn and pitted from eons spent beneath the sands of the southern Murgh Empire, but its eyes of lapis lazuli remained smooth and blue, gazing serenely forward as if they saw things in their eternal wisdom that mortal men could not.

  If that were really the case, perhaps the sphinx would understand the riddle of Lord Baydon’s words. What had he meant, that it was the least he could do? Before Rafferdy could ask, Lord Baydon looked away from the sphinx and said they should follow after the others.

  Indeed, the rest of the party was just departing the parlor, so Rafferdy proffered his arm to his companion. They went slowly, for the older lord was out of breath after only a few steps. As long as Rafferdy had known him, Lord Baydon had been a very plump man, but now his suit hung on him somewhat loosely, and there was a hollowness to his cheeks.

  By the time they reached the dining room, the others were already seated. Rafferdy helped Lord Baydon into his place, then took his own.

  “I warn you, supper is bound to be very poor tonight,” Lady Marsdel said as the first plates were brought. “I have directed my cook several times of late to produce better fare, but she has made no efforts in this regard.”

  “I imagine it is not for lack of effort,” Mrs. Baydon said. “My own cook complains there is nothing good to be had in the city anymore. Is it not the same for you, Lady Quent?”

  Mrs. Quent nodded. “The other day when I was out, I noted that the selection in the shops was very scant but that there was a surplus of people trying to purchase it.”

  Rafferdy could not help a smile. He doubted any other lord’s wife would go to a shop to observe things directly for herself. Only Mrs. Quent.

  “It is little hardship for us, but I worry about those who are poorer,” she continued, “and if they will be able to buy enough to eat.”

  Mr. Baydon gave a snort. “Well, if not, then you can blame it on the hooligans in the Outlands. I’m sure they are waylaying all carts and wagons that are bound for Invarel and making off with the goods; for God knows they are too dull and lazy to grow anything fit for proper people to eat in Torland. Yet I wonder that the Crown’s soldiers allow it.”

  “Perhaps they have other matters to concern themselves with,” Rafferdy said.

  “Well, I am sure some effort might be made to improve the situation,” Lady Marsdel declaimed. “I would dismiss my cook if I thought there was a chance I wouldn’t end up with someone even more dreadful. But that is hardly likely, for the best servants have all been taken away by the households that have left the city due to the troubles.”

  She took a spoonful of her soup, then waved a napkin at her bowl so that a servant hurried forward and whisked it away.

  “I tell you,” Lady Marsdel went on, “I have become greatly wearied by all this awful business. If it would confine itself to the West Country, I would care nothing about it, but when it causes us such misery here in the city, then it has become too much indeed.”

  “Hear! Hear!” Mr. Baydon said, then tucked into his own soup, seeming to have no concerns for its quality.

  In fact, everything set before them seemed to Rafferdy to be quite good, though he supposed the variety was less than would have been found upon Lady Marsdel’s table in the past. There were few exotic items or rare delicacies, but what was there was anything but poor. The soup was flavorful with fresh herbs, and the beef so tender it melted on the tongue. Rafferdy took a sip of his wine and found it to be an excellent vintage. If this was misery, he knew there were a great many people in the nation who would gladly wish themselves miserable.

  Yet, as he set down his glass, he could only think that the present state of affairs in the nation had indeed weighed upon Lady Marsdel. Rafferdy had never before thought of her ladyship as in any way old. Mature and stately, yes; but she was far too vigorous and forceful a woman to be described by a word that implied frailty and weakness.

  Only tonight her shoulders looked thin and curled inside the stiff shoulders of her russet dress, and the shadows in the dining room—more numerous than usual, for the number of candles was less—accentuated the sharpness of her cheeks and the thin bones of her hands. It might be ridiculous to think of a woman in a grand house dining on beef and wine to be miserable. Yet was not misery a relative state? It represented the difference between what one felt one should have and what one did. And that gap had grown for everyone in Altania over the course of these last months—the high as well as the low.

  Rafferdy set down his wineglass. “I wonder,” he said, “if the best goods and the best servants are to be found in the east, perhaps you should consider leaving the city and removing yourself to your manor at Farland Park. I im
agine you would find the society of more families there—and so have a better chance of luring away a good cook.”

  He spoke these words lightly, but Lady Marsdel’s reply was the opposite. “My father fought against Bandley Morden’s soldiers,” she said, letting her fork fall loudly against her plate. “Lord Marsdel’s father did as well. They did not put up with this Morden mischief then, and I will not do so now. We will stand our ground, as all true patriots of Altania must!”

  She spoke these words with force—though Rafferdy could not help noticing how her hand trembled as she took up her fork again. All the same, it was a pronouncement that could not be argued with. Rafferdy picked up his own fork, and they all resumed eating their supper with much grimness, as if it were their duty to their nation.

  Once this was concluded, they returned to the vastness of the parlor. Lady Marsdel seemed to have no wish for conversation, and she asked Mrs. Baydon if she would play some more on the pianoforte. Both Mr. and Mrs. Baydon appeared pained at this suggestion, but after the display at the supper table, no one seemed to think it wise to deny her ladyship’s wishes.

  “You must consider it your obligation as a patriot,” Rafferdy murmured in Mrs. Baydon’s ear as he pulled out the bench for her.

  She gave him a wan smile. “I suppose I must, at that.”

  Mrs. Baydon made a game attempt to play—and Mr. Baydon made a similar effort to conceal his criticisms behind his broadsheet. Lady Marsdel seemed intent upon listening to the music, while her brother dozed in a chair beside her. So it was that Rafferdy at last had an opportunity to speak to Mrs. Quent. The two of them sat on a sofa some distance away, and if they leaned their heads together, and spoke in low tones, no one might hear their voices over the music.

  “It seems so long since we have seen one another,” Mrs. Quent said first, apparently as eager to have a conversation as he was.

  “Much too long, I would say, and for that I can only blame myself.”

  “I am sure your work at Assembly is far more important than coming to call at Durrow Street.”