After traveling several more miles, they turned upon yet another road. A short distance later the moor abruptly gave way to a dense stand of trees. Beyond the trees stood a towerlike gatehouse, flanked by tall, crenelated stone walls.
Windgate Abbey, of course. It had to be.
Emily gaped in wonder. With its battlemented parapets and cruciform-shaped window, the gatehouse looked like something out of a fairy tale. As she stared, the window captured the last of the sun’s dying rays, its stained glass panes glittering in the blaze like jewels tumbling from a treasure chest. Magnificent! If the house behind those massive walls was anywhere near as grand as this, it would indeed be a castle fit for a duke … a prince even.
Forgetting everything but her eagerness to see that castle, Emily gawked about her like a child at a fair, taking in everything as they advanced through the passage of the gatehouse. The building was old, that much was certain. Far older than anything they had in America.
The carriage had slowed now, its pace decorous as they emerged from the gatehouse upon a long, tree-lined drive. Skirting the drive was an immaculately kept park, surrounded by yet more trees. Cranking her head this way and that, Emily tried to catch a glimpse of the house ahead. When she finally did, her heart dropped to the floor of her belly.
It looked like a fairy tale castle all right … one upon which had been cast a dark curse.
More than a little taken aback, she eyed the slightly off-center front portion of the house. With its monastic starkness, it looked every bit the medieval abbey the name suggested it to be. Hmmm. And here she’d thought that the use of the word “abbey” was nothing but a romantic conceit. Obviously she’d been wrong, for it appeared that the house was exactly what it claimed to be.
Well, at least part of it, she amended, looking first to the right, then to the left.
Constructed of the same weathered gray-brown granite as the gatehouse, the curious structure was indeed part church, as evidenced by its magnificent tracery windows and inlaid crosses. It was also part fortress, the fortress portion being the battlemented towers flanking the church segment. Hmmm. And then there was that porch. A grotesquely ornate affair, the covered porch jutted aggressively from the austere church front, its—baroque, wasn’t it?—styling clearly proclaiming it a later addition.
Not quite certain what to make of what might possibly be her new home, Emily let her gaze roam over the rest of the house, growing more and more bewildered as she took in the jumble that was Windgate Abbey.
Like many of the country houses her grandmother had pointed out along the way, it was a veritable catalog of architectural styles. Exactly what those styles were, Emily couldn’t even begin to guess, not being familiar with British architecture. All she knew for certain was that it was enormous, and ungainly, and foreboding to the point of being terrifying. Indeed, it looked exactly like the sort of place one would find the ghosts of which the British were so fond of boasting.
“Hideous, isn’t it?”
Emily jumped in startlement, glancing quickly to where her grandmother now sat upright. She had that squinty-eyed, rather cranky look of someone who had been awaken prematurely. Uncertain whether or not it would be rude to agree, Emily diplomatically responded, “You say that the duke’s grandmother is a friend of yours?”
The older woman paused in removing the hairpins that anchored her hat to nod. “For more years than I like to claim. Known her since we were girls. Been thick as glue ever since.” Hairpins now extracted, she swept the hat off her head and examined it. Frowning at what she saw, she promptly set about puffing the crushed fanlike bow and straightening the bent plumes.
Adjusting her own hat, Emily murmured, “Then you must know her grandson … the duke?”
Her grandmother emitted a faint sniff and deposited the now-restored hat back onto her head. “Know him? I practically raised the boy.” She expertly jabbed a hairpin into place. “His grandmother has been his guardian since he was just a babe. Being bosom-bows, I naturally helped with his rearing. I don’t mind telling you that I love the boy as if he were my own.”
Having experienced her grandmother for the past two weeks, Emily wasn’t at all certain whether that last was a good or a bad sign. Especially given the fact that she had yet to meet anyone under the age of sixty of whom the woman actually approved. Hmmm. Did that mean that the duke of Sherrington had a particularly fine character? Or was he, perhaps, coldly correct, like her grandmother, and old before his time?
Before she had time to ponder the question, the coach came to a stop. There was a shout, after which the door was opened by the waiting footman.
Emily sighed. She was only moments away from finding out.
Chapter 4
Gargoyles? In the entry hall? Oh, my!
“Emily!”
Emily jerked her startled gaze from the pair of gargoyle statues to glance at her grandmother, whose expression at the moment rather resembled that of the glowering, dragonlike gargoyle to the left of the door.
“Do stop goggling those horrid creatures and come along,” her grandmother admonished, sniffing, as she always did whenever Emily was guilty of a faux pas, which was most of the time.
Emily didn’t move. She couldn’t. She was frozen by the sight of the man who now stood beside her grandmother. Speaking of horrid creatures! Never in her life had she seen such a barbarically fierce-looking being, or one so monstrously tall. Why, he was a veritable giant.
Giant? Her mouth went suddenly dry. Could it be that her whimsy about the rock formations wasn’t whimsy at all? Had a race of giants indeed inhabited the moors in bygone days, and was this hulking being one of their last living descendants?
For several moments Emily continued to gape at the man, too aghast by her flight of fancy to do more. Then her common sense rallied and she felt her cheeks flame at her own foolishness.
What a peagoose she was! Of course the man wasn’t a giant. Indeed, now that she really looked at him, he wasn’t all that tall. Well, at least not tall enough to be considered a true giant. True giants were at least ten feet tall, everyone knew that, and this man looked only to be somewhere between six and a half and seven feet tall.
She nodded, pleased at the logic of her rationale. Yes, and giants, at least the mythical kind, didn’t wear such elegant suits of clothing. And this man was undeniably dressed up to the nines. Besides that, what would a giant be doing at the duke of Sherrington’s home … unless … unless …
The giant was the duke. The warm infusion of color promptly drained from her cheeks.
“Emily, really! Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it is rude to dawdle in doorways?” her grandmother reprimanded.
Emily shifted her horrified gaze back to her grandmother, whose gargoylelike glower had mutated into a scowl that was almost as intimidating as the notion of marrying the giant.
Almost. After a moment longer, during which she made no move to desist in her dawdling, her grandmother clapped twice, producing a sharp, staccato thwack that echoed eerily in the sepulchral vastness of the entry hall. Curtly signaling for her errant granddaughter to join them, she barked, “You will obey me, girl, and do so this instant. I have had quite enough of your nonsense for the day.”
Miserably seeing no escape, Emily slowly did as she was instructed, warily eyeing the giant as she advanced forward.
So was he the duke?
The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. He was, after all, particularly well-dressed. And he had displayed a certain air of grandiose command when he’d directed the household footmen to assist her grandmother’s servants with their baggage. Then there was the matter of his intimidating appearance. It would most definitely explain his need for an arranged marriage.
Wretchedly certain now that the giant was indeed her intended, Emily came to a dutiful stop before her grandmother. After a beat, she forced herself to sm
ile. Just because the duke was ugly was no reason to be rude. Besides, she was beginning to feel rather sorry for him. He’d no doubt suffered much misery on account of his dreadful looks, and she’d be blasted before she’d add to his pain by revealing her aversion to him.
Despite her charitable intentions, she came alarmingly close to being blasted in the next instance when he abruptly bared his teeth in response to her smile. Goodness! As if the poor man weren’t cursed enough, he had the most wicked-looking teeth she’d ever seen on a human. They were like fangs—very large, very pointed, very white fangs—a whole ghastly set of them. A shiver ran down her spine. She couldn’t marry him. She simply couldn’t! Not with those teeth. Why, the very act of kissing him would be hazardous, and didn’t people always kiss when they made babies?
She was darkly imagining the gruesome perils of kissing him when her grandmother said, “Emily, this is Grimshaw, his grace’s majordomo. Grimshaw, this is Miss Emily Merriman, my granddaughter. As you have no doubt heard, the duke and Miss Merriman are to be wed on the morrow.”
Majordomo? Emily’s forced smile broadened into a wide, genuine one in her relief. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Grimshaw,” she responded sincerely.
The man sketched a courtly bow. “I assure you that the pleasure is all mine, Miss Merriman. Please do accept my felicitations on your upcoming marriage.” His fangs were completely bared now, a sight that Emily might have found unnerving had it not been for the gentleness of his cultured voice and the twinkle in his surprisingly lovely blue eyes.
Deciding that she rather liked the majordomo, despite his unorthodox looks, she nodded and murmured, “Thank you. You are most kind.”
Her grandmother nodded as well, eyeing Emily with what would have passed for approval had her grandmother been anyone else. “Yes, well, I am sure the marriage will be a splendid success.” Another nod. “Now then, Grimshaw, please do inform his grace of our arrival. I am certain that he is anxious to greet his bride.”
“He has already been informed, my lady. Your outriders alerted us to your impending arrival just over an hour ago. His grace’s grandmother instructed me to direct you to the blue drawing room the instant you appeared. If you would be good enough to follow me?” When her grandmother had inclined her head in assent, he bowed again, then turned on his exquisitely shod heels and led the way down the long corridor to their left.
Like the dreary, gargoyle-infested entry hall, the cavernous corridor had a high-domed, rib-vaulted ceiling that appeared to be carved from the same grayish-brown stone that littered the moors. The floors, too, were of stone, as were the roughly hewn walls. Disrupting those craggy walls at irregularly spaced intervals was door after closed door, each in the Elizabethan style with geometrical panels and nail-head ornamentation. The only reason Emily was able to identify them as Elizabethan was because she’d heard her grandmother refer to a similar door at—had it been Lady Moreland’s house?—as an Elizabethan abomination. Secretly, Emily had thought the door charming, as she did these.
Unfortunately, those doors were the only thing she had thus far found charming about the house. And as she continued to follow her grandmother and the majordomo deeper into the convoluted bowels of Windgate Abbey, she was again reminded of her initial impression of the house. With its dark corners and pervading gloom, the house most definitely looked to be a haven for ghosts.
And gargoyles, Emily added to herself, glancing nervously up at the vaulted ceiling. Despite the numerous wall lanterns lighting their way, the uppermost reaches of the ceiling remained shrouded in sinister shadow. She shivered and looked away. Why, there could be a dozen gargoyles perched up there, and who would be the wiser?
Though she knew she was being ridiculous, she suddenly had the uncanny sensation that she was being watched from those shadows; watched by gargoyles who even now flexed their great batlike wings, malevolently preparing to swoop down and carry her off to their nest. Envisioning the hideous—and hungry—gargoyle hatchlings that most probably inhabited that nest, Emily quickened her step, rushing to catch up to her grandmother, who now seemed miles ahead of her. She had no sooner caught up than the majordomo turned down a different corridor.
A far pleasanter corridor, Emily noted, viewing the gilded cream-colored walls, and glossy red and cream tiled floor with infinite relief. Unlike the murky hallway they had just left, this one was full of light and warmth. Best of all, the plasterwork ceiling was rather low, its every sculpted corner glowing golden in the light from the candle-laden wall sconces.
She had just relaxed enough to actually notice the portraits lining the hall and to wonder if the handsome subjects were ancestors of the duke, when the majordomo stopped before a pair of wide double doors. After nodding at her and her grandmother, he scratched at one of the Pompeian-painted panels.
“Yes?” demanded a voice. Though that voice was muffled by the door, it was unmistakably female.
“Viscountess Bunbury and Miss Merriman, your grace.”
“Enter!”
The voice was not only female, but aristocratically tart. Emily grimaced. But of course the dowager duchess of Sherrington would be a fury; she would have to be in order to be her tyrannical grandmother’s bosom-bow. Before Emily had time to fully inure herself to that dismal certainty, Grimshaw opened the door.
Her grandmother promptly stepped into the room, her previously scowling face now the picture of genteel congeniality. When Emily didn’t automatically follow suit, she hissed, “Come along now, girl. Don’t forget to curtsy, and do try to be a credit to me for a change,” just loud enough for her and the majordomo to hear. Never once during her terse rebuke did her grandmother’s smile slip even the tiniest bit.
Blushing at being taken to task yet again before the servant, Emily moved forward, only to stumble over the threshold in the next instant. She no doubt would have fallen headlong had Grimshaw not caught her.
“There now, miss. Careful of the threshold,” he murmured, deftly steadying her.
Emily felt her flush deepen in her mortification, and though she knew it unnecessary to do so, she felt compelled to justify her bungle to the servant. “I’m sorry. I—I’m not usually so very clumsy.”
The hand that braced her arm gave it a reassuring squeeze. “No need to apologize, miss. The fault lies entirely with the uncommon elevation of the threshold. In truth, I tripped over it countless times myself before becoming accustomed to its height.”
Touched by his kindness, Emily glanced up at what she was rapidly beginning to consider his rather pleasant face. Hoping that her voice reflected her heartfelt gratitude, she whispered, “Thank you, Grimshaw.” She thanked him not just for rescuing her from her near spill, but for his gallant words.
He nodded and bared his fangs in what she now realized was his version of a smile.
She smiled back, revealing a goodly portion of her own teeth in the process. She most definitely liked him. Why, even his teeth weren’t so very dreadful, not now that she was getting accustomed to them.
“You are most certainly welcome,” he replied, releasing her. As he did so, he added under his breath, “I always find it best to remember that the nobles, too, occasionally use the chamberpot.”
Before she could respond to that irreverent bit of wisdom, the imperious voice exclaimed, “Devil a bit, Effie! Is the chit always so dashed clumsy?”
Having had her carriage branded as “unspeakable” by her grandmother, Emily hung her head, wretchedly expecting her to respond in the affirmative. To her amazement, her grandmother replied, “She isn’t clumsy. It’s that beastly threshold. Mark my words, Adeline Vane, someone is going to break their neck vaulting it one of these days. And then where will you be?” She finished with one of her disapproving little sniffs.
Her bosom-bow sniffed back. “Whether or not she is clumsy has yet to be seen.”
“Well, at least she is her
e to be seen, which is more than I can say for your grandson,” her grandmother countered. “I must say that it is exceedingly bad form on Michael’s part not to be here to greet his bride.”
“He would have been here had you not arrived early,” the duchess retorted. “According to your outriders, we weren’t to expect you for at least another quarter hour.”
Another sniff from her grandmother. “Everyone knows how devilishly impossible it is to predict exact travel times, even for experienced outriders, like mine. Thus, it is established convention to be prepared to receive one’s guests at least a quarter hour before they are expected. You obviously know that rule since you are here. Exactly why you never bothered to impart the lesson to Michael, I shall never know.”
“If I remember correctly, it was you who drilled him in etiquette. Indeed, you begged me to allow you to do so,” the duchess pointed out, matching her friend sniff for deprecating sniff. “Had I known that you would make such a lamentable bungle of it, I’d have taken matters into my own hands.”
With that they began to debate the methods for instructing boys, each trying to cast the other’s mode into the wrong.
Uncertain what to do, Emily lingered by the door of the gaudily gilded blue and white room, nervously awaiting her grandmother’s instruction. Where she had been apprehensive before, she grew doubly so now as she beheld the dowager duchess of Sherrington.
Unlike her grandmother, whose faded prettiness and comfortable plumpness gave her at least a facade of cherubic benevolence, the duchess’s angular face and spare figure projected a cold, patrician elegance that was as forbidding as it was regal. At the moment she sat enthroned on a floridly gilded white settee, her head held high and the full skirts of her simple, but exquisitely cut gray silk gown draped around her with a precision that called to mind an idealized portrait.
Bewitched Page 6