Clearly the London artist who’d been called upon to draw the house had never seen it for himself, but had made his illustration based on another’s description. Like the blind men and the elephant in the old fable, the stark results were based far more on imagination than reality. The ancient timbers and the white plaster and the diamond-paned windows were there, true, but there was no sign of the gracious old oaks or the rosebushes, and the drive was neither curving nor welcoming, but scarcely more than another rutted path to the door.
“Here we be, M’Lord Cap’n,” said the driver as he opened the carriage door for George. His face was ruddy from the cold, his breath coming in white puffs, as he kept a suspicious eye on the scruffy boy who’d appeared to hold the horses. “Feversham Hall, M’Lord Cap’n.”
George nodded, too intent on studying the house itself to venture more. The old timbers were splitting and silvered, the plaster needed patching, last summer’s weeds still dangled from the eaves, and nothing seemed to be parallel to anything else. Even that wretched boy with the horses would have to be taught to comb his hair and stand properly. If he took the house, he’d have plenty of work ahead to make it shipshape and Bristol-fashion. He’d have to bring in his own people up from the Nimble to see that things were done right, beginning with filling in the ditches in that hideous excuse for a road.
He nodded again, allowing himself a wry smile of determined anticipation with it. A right challenge this would be, wouldn’t it? If Addington and his blasted treaty had put the French out of his reach, at least for now, why not direct his energies and those of his idle crewmen towards replacing rotting timbers and split shingles? Perhaps “attack” had been the right word after all.
Purposefully he climbed the stone steps to thump his knuckles on the front door. The agent in London was supposed to have sent word about George’s arrival to the caretaker who lived in the house—a caretaker who was not only negligent in his duties, but dawdled at answering the door, decided George impatiently as he counted off the seconds he waited. If he took the house, one of his first tasks would be to send this worthless fellow packing.
George knocked again, harder. Where in blazes was the rascal, anyway?
He heard a scurry of footsteps inside, the clank and scrape of the lock being unbolted, and at last the heavy old door swung open on groaning iron hinges that needed as much attention as everything else. That much George had expected.
But he’d never anticipated the woman now standing before him.
She was tall, nearly as tall as George was himself, and even the simply cut dark gown that she wore with the white kerchief around her throat couldn’t hide that she was a handsomely made woman, one that would draw his eye anywhere. Just enough thick, dark hair showed beneath her cap to emphasise the whiteness of her skin, and her mouth had the kind of rich fullness that lonely sailors dream of. She seemed as if she’d been fashioned with the same contradictions as the landscape around her, dramatic and unyielding, beautiful yet severe, with thick-lashed eyes the mysterious smokey-gray of the mist that rose from Romney Marsh.
Yet though she wasn’t some giddy maidservant ripe for dalliance—she was too self-possessed for that—she wasn’t a lady, either, not answering her own door. The housekeeper, then, to stand with such authority. She was most definitely a different kind of beauty from the dithering, highborn London ladies he’d spend the last fortnight with, women so overbred and insubstantial in their white muslin gowns that a good west wind would have blown them away. But not this one, not at all, and George caught himself studying her with considerably more interest than he should.
“Good day, sir,” she said. The clipped words sounded more like a warning than a greeting, nor did she step to one side to invite him to enter. “We have been expecting you, Captain Claremont.”
“Captain Lord Claremont,” he corrected, his smile intended not to soften his words, but to show he meant them. “If you have been expecting my arrival, then you should know how to address me properly. ‘Good day, Captain My Lord’, not ‘sir.”’
Her eyes might have narrowed—he couldn’t be certain from the way the shadows fell across her face—but she most definitely did not smile.
“As you wish,” she said, pointedly omitting any title at all as she finally stepped aside and held back the door.
He walked past her, tucking his hat beneath his arm. As his eyes adjusted from the gray light outside, he could see that the interior of the house was in much the same state as the outside. Everything was well-ordered, scrubbed and swept, clean and in its place, but the cushions on the chairs were threadbare and the walls needed paint, the sorts of shabbiness that came from a lack of money, not inclination.
“Mr. Winslow is to show me the house,” he said as he ran his hand lightly along the carved oak leaves on the newel post. “Please summon him directly.”
“Mr. Winslow isn’t here,” she answered, so quickly that he was sure she’d been anticipating the question. “He is—he is away at present.”
“Is he indeed?” George was surprised; he knew the agent had been quite specific about his visit since there’d been so few inquiries about the house.
“Indeed, he is.” She flushed as she noticed his gaze shift to her clasped hands, looking for a wedding ring. “Mr. Winslow is my father, not my husband. I can show you the house every bit as well as he.”
He held his hat before him and bowed, just from the waist, and smiled. She deserved that from him. It wasn’t any of his business whether she had a husband or not. Still, for some reason he was glad she wasn’t married to the ne’er-do-well caretaker, but instead merely burdened with the rascal as her father. “Then show away, Miss Winslow. Show away!”
She didn’t smile in return the way he’d hoped, though the flush remained in her cheeks. “You will not like the house.”
He frowned. “Why are you so certain?”
“Because none of you fine London-folk do.”
“Then it is a good thing I am neither from London, nor what you would deem ‘fine’, being a sailor,” he said, wondering why the devil she seemed so determined to warn him away. “You are not quite as knowledgeable as you believe yourself to be, Miss Winslow.”
“Nor am I quite so ignorant as it pleases you to think,” she said. “Even here in Kent, we have heard of the ‘Silver Lord’. Rich as the king himself, they say you are now, and all from plundering that Spanish treasure ship.”
“‘They’ do not always tell the truth, Miss Winslow.” He should have realized his new fame would have preceded him, even to this remote place, and he doubted he’d ever grow accustomed to that hideous soubriquet that his own brother Brant had concocted. But unlike the greedy admiration and interest his good fortune had brought him in London, this woman seemed disdainful, her gaze patently unimpressed as it swept over his uniform.
“Now shall you show me this house, Miss Winslow,” he asked, “or will you leave me to find my own way?”
He couldn’t tell if she sighed with resignation, or irritation, or simply took a deep breath as she turned towards the first room to the left of the hall.
“The oldest part of Feversham Hall was built in 1445 by Sir William Everhart,” she began, lecturing like a governess with her hands folded before her at her waist. “It was supposed to be called Rose Hall, but the Feversham stuck instead because of the fevers and miasmas that rose each summer from the marshes. They say from fear of fevers, Sir William wouldn’t come down from London until he’d been assured of a killing frost.”
“I can understand the old gentleman’s reluctance,” said George as he followed. “I saw what yellow-jack could do to an entire fleet in Jamaica. I wonder that you don’t worry for your own health, Miss Winslow, living so near to the marshes.”
She paused, staring at him as if he’d asked the most foolish question in the world. “I have always lived near the marshes, and I cannot imagine living anywhere else. Besides, it’s only the outsiders that are stricken with the fevers. We folk th
at live here always are never touched.”
“So if I were to make this my home,” he asked, “then I should never be touched either?”
“Shifting your home to here would make no difference at all,” she answered firmly. “Not even you can have whatever you wish to buy. At Feversham, you would always—always—be an outsider. Now here, this is the front parlor.”
He frowned, tapping his thumbs along the brim of the hat in his hands. He was accustomed to being obeyed by his crewmen and most everyone else he encountered in his life, and he certainly hadn’t been corrected with such directness by a woman since he’d left the nursery.
The same woman who’d just turned her back to him—to him!—and was now walking briskly away as if he were nothing more than that lowly stable-boy.
“Miss Winslow,” he said, his voice automatically marshalling the authority of the Nimble’s quarterdeck. “Miss Winslow. Have you forgotten that I have come here solely to inspect this house for the purpose of making it my own?”
Slowly she turned, her hands still clasped before her, and gazed at him over her shoulder with unsettling evenness, almost as if they were equals.
“I have forgotten neither your purpose nor mine, no,” she said, her head tipped to one side so the pale light slipped across the curve of her cheek. “You are here to see Feversham, just as I am here to show it.”
He let out his breath slowly, unaware until that moment that he’d been holding it. “I am glad you have recalled your duty, Miss Winslow.”
“Yes, Captain My Lord.” She turned her head another fraction to the left as she dipped a quick curtsey of unconvincing contrition. “I recall everything. My duty, and my miserable low station before my betters. I shall not forget either again, Captain My Lord.”
Before he could reply she’d swept into the next room, tugging aside the heavy curtains at the windows. Weak sunlight, swirling with motes, filtered through the tiny, diamond-shaped panes and drifted over furniture shrouded in white cloths like so many ghosts. Miss Winslow didn’t glide through the parlor like London ladies, but went striding across the patterned floor so purposefully that her black skirts flurried and fluttered around her ankles in white-thread stockings.
But the skirts and the ankles were the least of it. Why in blazes did he have the distinct impression that by agreeing with him as she had, she’d still somehow bested him?
“There are sixteen chairs made of the same Weald oak to match the panelling,” she announced, twitching aside a dropcloth to display the tall-backed armchair beneath it. “It is considered most rare to have the complete set like this.”
Most rare the chairs might be, but George was in no humor to appreciate it. “That chair is a right ugly piece of work, Miss Winslow,” he said testily, “whether it has fifteen brothers or a hundred, and I’d wager it’s barbarously uncomfortable in the bargain.”
“That is your judgment, My Lord.” A fresh spark of challenge lit Miss Winslow’s gray eyes as she flipped the cover back over the offending chair. “The last master, Mr. Trelawney, appreciated the old ways in his home.”
“Or perhaps,” said George, “Mr. Trelawney was simply too tightfisted to make the necessary renovations to bring the old ways up to snuff with the new.”
“And what if he was, Captain My Lord, or what if he wasn’t?” she demanded tartly. “It’s been four years since Mr. Trelawney died, and nothing has been changed in that time. I told you the house wouldn’t suit you.”
George raised a single brow. “I haven’t said that it didn’t, have I?”
“You’ve as much as said it, saying everything’s gone fusty and shabby,” she said, her voice warming. “The other Trelawneys up north aren’t about to keep up with London fashions and improvements when what’s here will serve well enough. Times are hard, what with the wars and all, and the Trelawneys aren’t the sort to go tossing good coins after bad for no reason.”
“But what a wonderfully fine thing their carelessness is for me, Miss Winslow,” countered George, “especially if the shabbiness of the ‘old ways’ lowers Feversham’s asking price.”
She dipped her chin, letting the words simmer and stew between them. Too late she’d realized he’d been teasing her, and clearly the knowledge hadn’t made her happy with him, or herself, either.
“Through these doors lies the dining room,” she said curtly, turning with an abrupt squeak of her heel to lead the way.
George followed, keeping his little smile to himself. He’d won this particular skirmish handily, and he suspected there’d be more to come before they were done. Clearly Miss Winslow hated losing just as much as he did—which was making this tour a great deal more interesting than the old-fashioned furniture and creaking steps.
Their truce lasted through the tour of the dining room, the drawing room, and another dark little parlor pretending to be a library, though the shelves appeared to hold not books, but a mouldering collection of badly preserved stuffed gamebirds. The same uneasy peace held between them as they went downstairs and through the empty servants’ hall, past the laundry and the dairy and the echoing catacombs of the pantry, scullery, and kitchen, where George decided there was nothing more desultory than a kitchen bereft of the bullying chatter of a cook and the savory fragrances of roasting and baking, or sadder to see than a cold, clean-swept hearth with a row of empty spits above it.
How in blazes did Miss Winslow live in the middle of this? Surely she couldn’t be spending night and day alone among these shrouded chairs and mouldering walls, not and keep that straight defiance in her back and the sharp spark in her eyes. Surely there must be some other small, snug cottage on the land where she and her old father lived, some other place that was home.
But if that were so, then why did she still have so much pride in the old hall, shabby as it was? And why, when he had the power to restore it, did she seem so resentful of such a possibility? Why was she so intent on chasing him away?
And why, really, did he care?
“This is the mistress’s bedchamber,” she was saying as she threw open the shutters of the next-to-last room upstairs. “It has not been used in a long time, Mr. Trelawney being a bachelor-gentleman.”
“But doubtless at least one visiting queen or another has slept here,” said George, gazing at the enormous canopy bed, the heavily carved posts and the faded white and gold brocade hangings still maintaining a rare, regal grandeur. “Isn’t that always the case with the grand beds in these old houses?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Not here, not at Feversham. No lady’s ever slept in that bed that hadn’t a wedded right to it.”
Unable to resist such an opening, he patted the bed’s faded coverlet. “You’ve not been tempted to try it yourself, Miss Winslow? Not once, for a lark, to see how the mistress slumbered?”
Fiercely she shook her head, even as she blushed. Ah, he thought, so she had tried the bed, no matter how severe and proper she aspired to be. What woman wouldn’t, really, when tempted with a bedstead fit for a queen?
Or fit for a smoke-eyed woman with a queen’s own bearing….
“You have not asked of the roof, My Lord,” she said hurriedly, wishing so clearly to move from the topic of the bed that he almost—almost—regretted twitting her about it. “Most of you Londoners ask after that.”
He glanced up towards the ceiling, where the white plaster was stained yellow from obvious water damage. “I assume that there is one?”
“Of course,” she said. “It is made of tiles, to replace the old thatch.”
“And does it leak, Miss Winslow, this tiled roof?”
She looked upward, too, following his gaze. “Rain is a part of our life here, Captain My Lord. Raindrops and sea-spray—why, we scarce notice them, nor the marks that they leave.”
He smiled, knowing inevitably what would come next. “But the Londoners notice?”
“Oh, yes,” she said with undeniable triumph in her voice, and for the first time she smiled in return, quick an
d determined, in a way that seemed to link them together for that instant. “They do. Here is the last room for you to see, My Lord, the master’s chamber. You shall understand for yourself why it is the most perfect room in the entire house.”
His own smile lingered as he followed her, thinking of how that grin of hers was already as close to perfection as anything he’d see today. He’d tolerate a good winter’s worth of water-marked plaster to be able to see her look at him like that again.
But as soon as she pulled back the heavy velvet curtains, he forgot everything else but the view that rolled away before him. Here the old-fashioned diamond panes had been replaced with newer casements, freeing the landscape. The overgrown remnants of a garden huddled close to the house, then a band of wind-stunted oaks and evergreens that ran to a ragged edge of sandy land, and then—then lay the restless, shimmering silver of the sea, the horizon softened on a gray day like this so the waves and sky blended into one. What he would see from these windows would never be the same twice, just like the sea itself, and just like the sea, he’d always be drawn irresistibly back to it.
“Mark what I say, Captain My Lord,” said Miss Winslow swiftly, realizing too late the cost of sharing perfection. “There is so much wrong with Feversham that you cannot see for yourself, not in so short a time! Every chimney needs repointing, and every fireplace smokes. I cannot count the panes missing from the windows, the lead in the mullions having gone so brittle. The last cook left over how the bake-ovens are crumbling to dust from the inside, and there’s so many bats living in the attic that they’d come down into the servants’ quarters, too, making the maidservants all give notice from fright.”
He was only half listening, because none of it mattered. He would make whatever was wrong into right, wouldn’t he? There’d be no better way to spend his Spanish silver than this. He would have the curtains taken down from these windows, and he would never replace them. He would want to wake to this, his own private square of sea, and he would want to fall asleep to it each night as well.
The Silver Lord Page 2