The Purloined Papers

by Allison Lane

  “You will enjoy it. I watched balls from the gallery myself at your age.” And had made faces at the posturing. Flirtation games had seemed a huge joke in those days. He’d laughed himself silly over the Exquisite whose dramatic gesture with a quizzing glass had snagged its jeweled handle on the lace framing a young lady’s bosom, forcing him to carefully pick it free. Both had been beet red by the time he succeeded. “Perhaps I will join you for a set. We can try the wicked waltz.”

  “Would you really?” Her blue eyes widened, confirming that she would be a London diamond before long. A true diamond, for her character was as beautiful as her face.

  “Really. Let’s say the third set. I doubt Miss Griswold will let you stay up much later.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Drew. You are the best.” She hugged him fiercely, then raced away, undoubtedly to tell Catherine the news.

  He grinned after her. Sarah had been precocious from birth, but her sweet temper, delight in the world around her, and genuine caring for others made her beloved by all who knew her.

  Pulling his mind from his niece, he went in search of William. Sally’s recollection of Saturday night shone a different light on Sir Nigel’s accident, one that fit the blood, the extra candle, and the wax in the library. So much shouting. Had Sir Nigel interrupted a burglary?

  William was in the old wing, but not alone. Miss Truitt and Gray were with him.

  “My grandfather abandoned this wing when his finances began to slide,” William was saying apologetically. “Which is why most of the ball guests cannot attend the house party. I don’t have the staff to make these rooms even marginally habitable.”

  Or the money, Andrew added silently. The wing needed more than turning out. Even tattered wallpaper and shattered draperies weren’t the real problem. Plaster on more than one wall was crumbling, and the chimneys all needed repair.

  “But we will need this space in the future,” said Miss Truitt. “Despite assigning two and even three people to each room, Seabrook can barely accommodate your current guests. How will we manage even family gatherings in the future? My brother will wed one day, as will yours. And Sarah is nearly old enough to leave the nursery. Others will follow. It will be impossible to entertain in comfort without this wing.”

  “But the estate also needs attention.” William was clearly embarrassed – repairs could only be made using her money.

  When William and Miss Truitt moved off to examine a damaged wall, Andrew joined Gray. “Is there a problem?” he murmured.

  “The same what-shall-we-do-with-this-wing question we’ve discussed before,” replied Gray softly.

  The subject had not seriously arisen until Catherine’s marriage to Rockhurst, for the Seabrooks had never been wealthy, and Catherine’s first husband had been a country vicar. But though Andrew had been in Spain at the time, he’d followed the argument via letters.

  Seabrook Manor was a modest country house, but only if one counted all three wings. The west wing was small, containing only the ballroom and a pair of retiring rooms. The north wing was adequate for the immediate family, but strained at the seams with a few guests. Yet the old east wing was too derelict even for temporary use.

  Rockhurst had offered to repair it, as had Gray after he wed Mary. William had refused. He’d sacrificed his pride only once – accepting Rockhurst’s loan to modernize portions of the estate and repair the tenant farms. And he was repaying every shilling, despite Rockhurst’s insistence that the money had been a gift.

  Under normal circumstances, Andrew would have slipped away, for the discussion was rapidly becoming an argument. William wanted to patch the worst spots so the rooms could be used. Miss Truitt insisted that the only sensible approach was to tear the wing down and replace it.

  But there was a third possibility they hadn’t considered – hardly a surprise. William ignored any problem he couldn’t fix, and Miss Truitt’s family replaced anything irritating, without considering cost. But Andrew had thought about this wing for years. He’d even studied it two years earlier while his shoulder was healing.

  “There is nothing wrong with the outer walls or the floors,” he said, joining William and Martha. “They are sturdy and blend with the rest of the house. It would be a simple matter to remove these inner walls and divide the space in a more pleasing fashion. They have already been moved at least once, which is why the plaster cracked so badly. The seventeenth-century baron who installed them used unskilled workers. And if you want even more room–” he nodded to Martha “—you could extend the wing another sixty feet or so. The job would be both faster and cheaper than replacing everything. Do you plan to redecorate the main block?”

  She nodded, her eyes conveying distaste for its shabby furniture. Some rooms hadn’t been redone in a century.

  “Then here’s another possibility.” He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and sketched the current house. “This wing was the original manor house. If you are going to put money into it, you might as well use it as your primary quarters. Restore the old curve in the drive and add a portico to make the entrance more elegant. Recessing the extension would maintain the symmetry of the façade. You can divide the space into well-proportioned rooms without moving any of the fireplaces. And you might want to consider some modern conveniences – a lift in the butler’s pantry for bringing food up from the kitchen, for example. Or you could build a bathing room in the master suite. I saw such a room two years ago. A cistern collected rainwater from the roof, supplying a tank in the bathing room. A fire keeps the tank hot – very like the boiling tub in the laundry. Thus it is possible to bathe whenever you wish without waiting while servants carry can after can up from the kitchen.”

  “Really?” Miss Truitt’s eyes gleamed. “I’d not heard of such a thing. Where did you see it?”

  “A friend in Kent just rebuilt his house, but he is far from the first. Several dozen estates have added bathing rooms, and some London town houses are now adopting the idea, thanks to Brummell’s insistence on cleanliness.”

  “Imagine. Hot water in one’s rooms.” Awe filled her voice. “Even Father doesn’t have that.”

  “You will have to think about the size and variety of rooms you want, but one possibility is this.” He turned the paper over to sketch on the back. “For the first floor, you could have two or three rooms for formal and informal gatherings, a larger library than in the current wing, dining spaces, both intimate and formal, and a divided staircase leading upstairs.”

  “Rather like Rankin Park,” murmured William, referring to a nearby estate.

  “But better. In addition to preserving the symmetry of the façade, recessing the extension would partially close the fourth side of the courtyard, sheltering the terrace and trapping enough sunlight to keep it pleasant much of the year. Its plantings would flower a good month earlier.”

  “Roses in May,” said Martha.

  “And asters lasting into November. Below-stairs, the ground floor would provide space for a better kitchen and all the offices necessary to run the house. I’m sure the staff would appreciate a larger coal room, for example, and a more convenient laundry. And increasing the staff – which will be necessary if you enlarge the house – requires a larger brewery. The current one can barely keep up with the demand for ale. My friend installed a roasting range in his kitchen and claims that even middling cooks can turn out exquisite meals on it.”

  “My, but that was fast.” Martha stared at his sketch.

  “I know the house well.” He added a rough elevation showing an elegant portico instead of the unadorned façade of the current wing, then handed her the paper. “Just some ideas. It would be less expensive than tearing down the wing, yet give you more functionality than merely patching damaged walls.” He nodded toward the hole she and William had been examining. “Later you can spruce up the current family block for guests.”

  William was staring at the sketch. “You surprise me, Andrew.”

  “And me,” added Gray. “I�
��d no idea you were so talented.”

  “It’s nothing.” Praise embarrassed him. “Drawing keeps my mind off battle.”

  “I had wondered how you tolerated so much death and destruction,” murmured Gray as William and Martha moved to the window to study the sketch. “You did not strike me as the sort who could block off horror.”

  Andrew shuddered. Gray was too perceptive. There had been days when only making painstaking measurements of architectural details had kept him sane. And talking to the army engineers. Picking their brains allowed him to construct fantasy buildings on paper. A cathedral. A palace. A town house. A church. Even being billeted in peasant huts had given him ideas for tenant cottages that were both convenient and inexpensive.

  “One does what one must,” he said with a shrug. Adjusting to the army had been necessary.

  “You could sell out.”

  “And do what? I’ve no money, no training, and no contacts. I cannot ask William to support me, for I would be of no use here. Fighting is all I know.”

  “You have the eye of an artist and a design sense better than half the architects in England – as I know very well, for I’ve interviewed most of them. I will be replacing Rothmoor Park once it comes to me. Would you help me?”

  Andrew ignored a burst of excitement. He didn’t have the training to do more than dash off an extemporaneous drawing or two. And he was too old to learn. Apprenticeships started by age twelve. “It wouldn’t work,” he said firmly. “I’ll rejoin my regiment next week. And why would you want an amateur? You can afford someone like Soane.” One of England’s most respected architects, Soane had a huge office in London, with a wide and varied practice. He had recently been appointed to the Board of Works.

  William joined them, preventing a response. “This is wonderful,” he said, tapping the paper. “We will talk further once Martha and I have a chance to think. I must admit a fondness for these old walls.”

  Martha smiled. “They are, indeed, solid. But I’ve not seen such a warren of rooms in many a day. What else have you seen on your travels, Captain?”

  “Much, but we can discuss that later. Fitch will have rung the dressing bell by now.”

  * * * *

  Chloe shut her bedroom door and exhaled in relief. Laura had been more obnoxious tonight than any other time in the two years Chloe had held this post.

  It had started the moment she’d opened the front door. Laura’s barrage of complaints had made Chloe long to race after Andrew and leave. She hadn’t, of course. The only way Laura would go to Seabrook was if Chloe took her there. She could last two more days.

  But by the time they finished dinner, Chloe doubted her stamina. Laura’s self-pity had reached record levels, and her tirades bordered on madness.

  “How could Sir Nigel do this to me?” she had demanded over the soup. “Dying when I needed you is beyond enough. He should be shot.”

  “What happened?” Chloe asked, biting back the observation that shooting a corpse was an exercise in futility.

  “Mrs. Tubbs, of course! The woman is a fool. You’d hardly left before she pounded on the door. I swear she stood there for hours, though she should have known I wasn’t receiving. Why would she expect otherwise? She is so far beneath me that I demean myself by even speaking of her.”

  Chloe kept her attention on the soup. The real complaint was that Chloe had been gallivanting about the countryside while Laura sat home alone.

  “Then she had the gall to tell the fish boy not to come out here because no one was home. Dinner was positively vulgar. Mrs. Monroe served ham instead of fish. Has she no propriety?”

  “There is nothing wrong with ham,” Chloe had murmured.

  “For country bumpkins like you, perhaps,” snapped Laura. “But the polite world always begins dinner with fish.”

  Now Chloe shook her head as she pulled her trunk from beneath her bed. Laura’s complaints had continued throughout the meal, with barely a pause to chew. They had run the gamut from the petty to the ridiculous – Mrs. Monroe had twice jabbed pins into her shoulder while fastening her gown and should be turned off for clumsiness; the carrots were hard and the comfits sour; Mrs. Monroe was even worse than Chloe at dressing Laura’s hair; Mr. Rose was spying on her, gloating over her misfortune; Mrs. Tubbs was also plotting against her.

  Chloe hadn’t worked out why or in what way – not that she cared. Laura’s thought processes were convoluted at best.

  Thrusting the memories aside, Chloe opened her wardrobe. Whether Andrew found a cottage or not, she would not return to Moorside. So she must pack her personal possessions tonight. Tomorrow she would be busy packing for Laura.

  Yet she was immediately sidetracked by Kevin’s folio. So many strange creatures – the African giraffe, whose long neck allowed it to pluck leaves from the tops of trees; the South American sloth that spent its entire life hanging upside down; the Australian beast that could leap the length of a ballroom and carried its young in a pocket attached to its stomach….

  Stop wasting time, her conscience ordered. You can look at the pictures later.

  Sighing, she laid the folio in her trunk, adding her pearls, Andrew’s condolence letter, a pressed flower he’d plucked for her during a childhood game, the lace gloves she’d saved to wear at her wedding—

  Blinking back tears, she cursed her maudlin memories. As a girl, she’d been blinded by dreams – just as Laura was to this day. Despite knowing that he had to leave, she’d entertained fantasies of a home, marriage, family….

  What a selfish fool she’d been, hugging her fantasies, ignoring reality, certain that if she dreamed hard enough, her wishes would come true. Her fantasy had destroyed any chance of finding happiness, first by giving Andrew a disgust of her, then by making her find fault with every other man she met. Her dreams had also deprived her of her father’s love. He’d been furious when she spurned every man he suggested. She’d lashed back, criticizing her inadequate dowry. Deep inside, she’d believed that a large dowry would have kept Andrew in Devonshire.

  Unfair. Andrew had bought colors out of duty.

  Little had changed, she admitted, staring at the mementos of a childish love. He could still send her heart racing with a glance. But reality was also the same. Despite forgiving her for her perfidy in the orchard, he would again follow duty. Continuing to moon over him would mark her as a hen-wit.

  Straightening her spine, she folded her winter cloak and better gowns into the trunk, adding the figurine she’d bought in Bath and her few books. It was time to embark on the life that would sustain her from now on.

  * * * *

  Andrew glanced around the table after the ladies retired to the drawing room for coffee. Dinner had made the need for enlarging Seabrook even more obvious. The dining room already seemed cramped, yet each meal for the next week would include more guests than the night before. The pre-ball dinner on Saturday would seat forty.

  Martha might prefer Seabrook to Exeter, but she was no hermit. He suspected that Seabrook would become a center of local society in the years ahead, no matter what William thought now. She would need a large formal dining room as well as an intimate room for dining en famille.

  He was passing the port to Mr. Sullivan when Fitch returned to murmur into William’s ear. Frowning, William set down his glass.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen. There is a small problem I must address.”

  Amid murmurs of assent, he signaled Rockhurst to take over as host and Andrew to accompany him.

  “What happened?” Andrew asked when they reached the hall.

  “Another summons from Fields House. Burglary, from the sound of it.”

  “Odd.”

  “Very.” William said no more until he set his curricle in motion. “Someone ransacked several rooms.”

  Andrew frowned. “When?”

  “The groom didn’t know, but the house was empty during Sir Nigel’s interment.”

  “I saw no disturbance afterward. Nor did Chloe.”
<
br />   “How do you know?”

  Andrew scowled at William’s idiocy. “She would have mentioned it. With Sunday night’s rain, it took two hours to reach Moorside. And Peter would certainly have complained.”

  “How much of the house did you see?”

  “The hall, the drawing room, and the library. I glanced into the dining room in passing. After the burial, Chloe was in her room, her mother’s room, and Kevin’s – she mentioned that they hadn’t changed since her last visit.”

  “Perhaps the culprit slipped in during the interment, but waited until later to strike.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know. Nor can I explain why someone would burgle the place while Peter and the staff were awake. I don’t like it.”

  “Nor do I,” conceded Andrew. “Is it possible that this summons is a mistake? Who would rob Fields House? Everyone knows Sir Nigel sold everything of value.”

  “Which would point toward a vagrant unfamiliar with the area – perhaps a former soldier.”

  “Or Peter. He has been searching high and low for something to sell, and he does not strike me as the tidy sort. Perhaps the servants mistook one of his messes.”

  “Anything is possible,” said William with a sigh.

  “Or this may connect to Sir Nigel’s death. We haven’t had a chance to talk today. Sally sought me out this morning.”

  “I hate house parties,” grumbled William. “No time for business.”

  “Quite. Anyway, Sally’s room lies above the main staircase. She swears that Sir Nigel shouted for help several times before she heard the bumps that marked his fall.”

  “Why did she not say so before?”

  “She didn’t realize that Gramling heard only one shout. By the time she did, it was too late to contradict him. You know how servants’ halls work. Precedence is more rigid than in society. No one would dare contradict someone above them.”

  “Was he lying, then?”

  “I doubt it. Sally claims he is nearly deaf and sleeps like the dead, though he won’t admit it. She was surprised he heard anything at all.”