The Master of Heathcrest Hall

by Galen Beckett

  The redcrests had sworn an oath to protect the people of Altania. But who would protect the people against them? Certainly not the government, for that was whom the soldiers served.

  At least, not this government.

  The soldiers passed by, and Eldyn staggered from the alcove onto the street. He looked down at his hands. Though stained black with ink from the broadsheet, they remained delicate and smooth. His father had always mocked him for the fine appearance of his hands.

  A woman would be pleased to have such hands as yours, Vandimeer Garritt would say with a laugh if he was in a good mood. Be careful not to tear a fingernail, now.

  Despite his father’s words, Eldyn was not afraid to put up a struggle. He had shown that when he brought about the demise of the highwayman Westen Darendal, and when he confronted Archdeacon Lemarck beneath the chapel in High Holy. Eldyn was no soldier, he knew that.

  But there were other ways to fight a war than with guns.

  He was already walking past carriages and horses and people before he even realized where he was going. Moving at a quick march, he made his way along University Street, then turned down a narrow lane, coming to a set of stone stairs between two buildings. BUTCHER’S SLIP, read the metal plaque on the arch above the stairs.

  The stairs ended in a small close. The buildings leaned inward as they rose up all around, so that only a dim light filtered down into the little courtyard. On the far side was a door set into a wall lined with many small windows. Eldyn hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he went up to the door and knocked loudly.

  The door opened. On the other side was a long corridor blocked by two men about his own age. Both of them were tall, with thick necks and meaty forearms.

  “What do you want?” one of them growled.

  “My name is Eldyn Garritt.”

  “And?”

  “I’m here to see Orris Jaimsley. I think he’s staying in the dormitories. He told me to come see him if …” He drew in a breath. “That is, he said you could always use another trustworthy man.”

  The two gazed at him with narrowed eyes, as if taking his measure, then they looked at each other. Eldyn willed himself not to slink away and pull the shadows around him.

  Finally the young man who had spoken nodded.

  “If Jaimsley told you to come see him, then you should see him.”

  The door opened wider, and Eldyn stepped through.

  IT WAS THE MIDDLE of a long lumenal, and Ivy and Mr. Quent sat together in the garden on the side of the house, on a blanket spread out in the dappled shade beneath the tall plane trees.

  Surprisingly, it had been his idea to leave their dwelling and go outside for a while. She would have been quite content to spend the remainder of the day in bed, encircled in his arms, engaging in those same tender activities with which they had whiled away the morning. But then he had risen, and he had suggested they go out. Nor could she disagree with the notion once she looked out the window.

  It was a perfect day to be outdoors. There had been so much queer weather of late—days that were too stifling, or that were violent with storms. But today, at this moment, it was beautiful. The arching branches of the plane trees swayed languidly in a breeze that was perfectly warm, and their leaves imparted a green tincture to the gold light that filtered from above. Ivy breathed in, finding the light and air to be every bit as heady as the cool wine which Mrs. Seenly had brought out to them on a tray.

  Ivy wondered if her sisters would spy them through a window and come out to join them, but so far they had not. Rose’s had never been a gregarious personality, and she had been particularly withdrawn of late. Recent events had affected her—had affected all of them. Ivy had banished all broadsheets from the house, but that did not mean her sisters were entirely ignorant of what had occurred when Mr. Quent appeared before Assembly. They had both asked questions, and some news did not need to be printed upon a page in order to travel. Ivy had overheard a few of the servants whispering—though after she informed Mrs. Seenly, this behavior quickly stopped.

  As for Lily, she had been astonishingly well-behaved over the last quarter month. Ivy had not seen her once with her folio, and so could begin to hope Lily had given up her fascination with illusion plays. What was more, Ivy could not recall a single outburst or argument, or any kind of peevish behavior—even when such might have been justified.

  While invitations to dinners and parties had become infrequent in recent months, due to the number of families who had departed the city, now such notes and letters ceased entirely. And even if people did return to Invarel at some point, invitations for the Miss Lockwells—or for Ivy—were unlikely to resume. Newspapers might have been banished from the house, but they were plentiful about the city. At this point there could be no one with any sort of connection who was not aware of the accusation that had been leveled against Mr. Quent.

  The fact that this charge had not been proven was incidental. Ivy could not forget how the merest intimation of treason had required Mr. Rafferdy to break off his engagement with Miss Everaud. She had been forced to flee the country with her father, Lord Everaud, who according to whispers had been sending funds to the Principalities for the purpose of helping Huntley Morden to raise a fleet of ships.

  Lord Davarry had made no such accusation of treason against Mr. Quent. But meeting with a witch, one who was known to have aided Torland rebels, was more than enough to cause people to abruptly and irrevocably break off all association. Not so very long ago, at the party for Lily and Rose, Lady Crayford had told Ivy that she was bound to rise higher yet in society. How things had been altered in the few months since then! Ivy knew that, if she were to arrange another party now, no one but themselves would come.

  As for Lady Crayford, fortune had progressed in a far more awful manner. After Lord Crayford—or rather, Mr. Gambrel—was implicated in the affair of the archbishop’s madness, Lady Crayford had fled the city to their manor in the east. While being cast from society’s highest circles was no doubt a stinging punishment for her, this had been superseded by a more terrible and final judgment. Lady Marsdel had only lately learned that, some time ago, the country manor of the Crayfords had been consumed in a fire. So quick and violent had been the flames that the entire house had burned to the ground before any of its denizens could escape.

  When Lady Marsdel had imparted this news in a recent letter, Ivy felt both shock and sorrow. Lady Crayford had betrayed her, and had used her in the most reprehensible manner, but still Ivy would not have wished such a dreadful fate upon her. Ivy shuddered when she thought of it—of the pain and fear Lady Crayford must have suffered in the end.

  FOR IVY’S PART, she could hardly claim what had happened was any sort of punishment for her. True, she was not invited to parties anymore, but nor was she in any way abandoned. In addition to notes from Lady Marsdel, she had received a visit from Mrs. Baydon, assuring Ivy of her continued affection and regard. And while she had not heard from him, she was certain that Mr. Rafferdy would still condescend to associate with them. After all, he had had prior dealings with a witch himself—namely Ivy.

  Still, there was no pretending that they were not in general cut off from society in the city. Yet despite this, Lily had seemed unperturbed these last days. Ivy would have thought her to be distraught at the sudden severing of their connections, and this was one occasion on which Ivy would not have begrudged her an outburst of tears.

  Instead, Lily had seemed content to read books or help Rose sew shirts for the poor basket. When she played the pianoforte, she chose lighter and more melodious pieces than the ominous compositions she used to favor. Ivy was confounded by Lily’s unexpectedly good behavior, but she could hardly complain about it.

  “Can I pour you some more wine, Ivoleyn?”

  She turned her gaze from the branches above to her husband on the blanket beside her, and she smiled.

  “Perhaps a little,” she said. “Though it feels indulgent to have more than one glass in
the middle of the day.”

  “As you are in general very poor at indulging yourself, I think we should seize upon this opportunity.”

  He spoke this so seriously that she could only laugh, and she willingly held out her glass so he could fill it from the bottle. He filled his own, and they reclined upon the blanket as they sipped the pale yellow wine.

  Now it was not the branches she watched, but her husband. Despite the events of these last days, he looked very well. It was too warm for a coat, and his cream-colored shirt was rolled up at the cuffs and opened at the throat. His beard was newly trimmed, and the muted, dappled light beneath the trees softened the rugged lines of his face.

  It was curious. She had noted how Mr. Rafferdy had grown more handsome even as he had become more serious, but for Mr. Quent it was the opposite. He seemed calm and at ease now, and this had a decidedly positive effect upon his appearance. Coils of brown hair tumbled over his brow, and a few similarly colored tufts peeked out from the open collar of his shirt. She could only smile at him, her Tharosian faun, out amid the green.

  “What are you looking at?” he said. “You have a peculiar gleam in your eyes.”

  “I was simply admiring the view,” she said teasingly.

  Mr. Quent gave her a scowl, but it was an expression of humor rather than vexation, and he went back to drinking his wine.

  Ivy smiled, for it was good to see him away from his study. He had continued to work diligently over these last days, reading and writing answers to numerous missives from other inquirers, and poring over maps and reports. But at no point since his testimony had he gone up to the Citadel.

  That he would never succeed Lord Rafferdy and be confirmed as lord inquirer was so assured that they had hardly bothered to speak of it. Ivy could not claim she wasn’t saddened by this fact, though it was not for herself that she felt sorrow. Rather, it was for him. He had not craved the acclaim he had previously gotten, and neither did he deserve the scorn he was receiving now. She knew he wanted only to do his work to the best of his ability. So she was saddened for Altania as well, that it should be deprived of the benefit of his efforts.

  And as for the witches he might have found and aided in his efforts to prevent Risings—Ivy felt not sorrow but dread. For who should discover them now? Lady Shayde and the Gray Conclave? Or would young women instead hear the call of the Wyrdwood, and scale its walls and venture into its depths, losing themselves amid its green tangles.…

  No, she would not think that. There were yet other inquirers carrying on Lord Rafferdy’s work. And for her part, despite all these concerns, Ivy could not say that she missed the letters and invitations, or the comings and goings in the household. Rather, it was pleasant for things to be so quiet and peaceful, and to have Mr. Quent here at home with them. It was strange, but in a way she could not recall a time when she had been so content.

  She noticed that he had set down his glass on the tray, and was rubbing two fingers against his temple.

  “You have a headache again,” she said.

  “It will pass.”

  He had been having frequent headaches since the day following his appearance before Assembly. Not that this was surprising, given the concerns that must weigh upon his mind.

  “Come,” she said, in a tone that brooked no argument, and she took his shoulders, leaning him back until his head rested upon her lap. She smoothed back his brown curls, and with gentle motions stroked his forehead. He shut his eyes and let out a breath, and soon the lines upon his brow lessened in depth—though they did not fade altogether. They were ever present, as they had been since she first met him.

  How deep the lines upon his forehead had been that day! He had returned to Heathcrest Hall to find his young wards, Clarette and Chambley, all in a commotion, and he had been obviously displeased with the efforts of his new governess—that was, with Ivy. She had quailed at his grim expression and solemn demeanor. Though somehow she had found the courage to keep from retreating in the face of his ire.

  What would she have thought that day, if she had known that in the future he would be lying peacefully with his head upon her lap? At the time, she would never have been able to imagine it. But both of them were greatly altered since those first days at Heathcrest.

  “I wonder how Clarette and Chambley are,” she mused aloud.

  “I am sure they are well. Last we had a letter, they had gone with their aunt and uncle to the east, far from the troubles.”

  Ivy was sure that was the case. All the same, it was hard not to wonder about them. For so many months at Heathcrest Hall, the two had been her only real companions.

  “Do you remember the day the children knocked over the stuffed fox in the front hall at Heathcrest?” she said as she stroked his brow. “I was trying to put the stuffing back into it, hoping I could do so before you saw what had happened. But then there you were, standing over us, so that we were all of us in a great terror, I no less than the two of them.”

  “Was I really so frightening as that?” he said, his voice a growl, though there was a hint of a smile at the corners of his lips.

  “You were very stern,” she said with a laugh.

  “Well, it was the first fox I ever hunted with my father. I was quite attached to it.”

  “It is peculiar that, after shooting the creature once, you should then be so concerned about another hole in its side.”

  “If you cannot understand that, then you have much yet to learn about the nature and behavior of men. I suggest you consult a book on the topic, as is your habit.”

  She gave a plaintive sigh. “I am not sure there is a book that reveals such mysteries as those. I fear I will dwell in ignorance without instruction.”

  “Very well, then I shall take you on a hunting party in the country as soon as it is convenient.”

  He spoke these words in jest, but all the same a sudden, wild feeling came over Ivy. At that instant, she no longer wished to be sitting in a neatly tended garden, but rather riding across moors of heather and gorse at the foot of rocky fells.

  And why shouldn’t she? It was impossible Mr. Quent would become lord inquirer now; there was no need for him to remain close to the Citadel. Nor was there anything preventing them from removing her father from Madstone’s at any time. She had been waiting for his rooms here at the house to be finished, which they nearly were. But there were plenty of rooms at Heathcrest Hall, all simply waiting to have the sheets pulled off the furniture and the windows opened and a fire lit in the grate.

  As for Lily and Rose—there was nothing for them in the city either, not now; they would find no suitable society here. But what about at Cairnbridge? Would they not be welcomed there? Surely all in County Westmorain would be glad to have people at Heathcrest Hall once more. Ivy knew Rose would like both Mr. Samonds and his aunt; theirs were gentle spirits, like her own. And Lily could throw balls that everyone in the county would want to attend.

  No, there was no reason for them to stay here in the city anymore.…

  “What is it, Ivoleyn?”

  Ivy realized she had ceased her ministrations upon his brow, and that she had sat up very straight. He must have noticed this change, for he sat up himself, his brown eyes curious as he looked at her.

  “Is something wrong, Ivoleyn?”

  She shook her head. “No, I am well. It’s just what you said a moment ago, it made me think about … That is, why don’t we go? Why don’t we go to the country?”

  “Now, you mean?”

  “Not just now. For always.”

  He stared a moment, then his eyes opened more widely and his lips parted as he let out a breath. She was not certain if his expression was one of astonishment or joy. But either way, as he was mute, she kept speaking, her cheeks glowing as she did.

  “Let’s leave the city. Let’s leave at once and go back to the country. We can all live at Heathcrest Hall—Lily and Rose and my father, and you and I. Everyone in Cairnbridge would be happy to have us back—or at l
east many would, I am sure of it. And there is more than enough room for us all at your manor. So we would not want for either space or society.” She reached out and took his hands in her own. “We could not want for anything, not if we were all of us there together.”

  He was quiet for a long moment, his gaze going past her, as if he gazed at some far-off place. At last he looked at her again.

  “I will not become a lord, Ivoleyn. It may be that I will no longer even be a baronet, or that—” He shook his head. “Things may not be what you think they will be.”

  She tightened her grip on his hands. “I have no care about that. It was neither Sir Quent nor Lord Quent that I married. Rather, I married Mr. Quent, the master of Heathcrest Hall. And if I were to dwell there with him again, then I could never wish for anything more.”

  “On the contrary, I fear you may wish you had never married me at all,” he said, his voice going low. “You may wish that you had married Mr. Rafferdy instead.”

  She stared at him, astonished. “Mr. Rafferdy?”

  “Or Lord Rafferdy, I should say. For he is a magnate now—something I will never be myself.”

  “But I care nothing about that!”

  “No, I suppose you do not. Yet it is true that you did care about him, didn’t you? Lily once told me that you had hoped for a proposal from him, before you ever received my letter inviting you to Heathcrest Hall.”

  Ivy suffered a pang of anguish. That had been thoughtless of Lily to say such a thing. It could only cause harm, and it was of no consequence anymore. How could it be? After all, the past could not be altered.…

  “Did you love him very much, then?” Mr. Quent said, his brown eyes intent upon her.

  That Ivy could lie to him when he gazed at her like that was impossible. “Yes, I did,” she said, then shook her head a little. “Or rather, I believed at the time that I did. He was tall and charming and witty, of course. But it was more than that. He was so far removed from the small, plain circle of my world—from all the troubles and worries in it. Mr. Rafferdy seemed to fly above it all as easily as an exotic bird might fly above the rooftops of some damp and dreary city. I could only find that captivating. And yet …”