"But if anyone should come they'll think it monstrous strange, Mrs. A. Nobody locks doors, or closes curtains in the summer time."
"Which is why we're so fortunate that you are of a—er, retiring disposition."
"You mean ripe for Bedlam," sighed Grace.
At the main house a footman directed Ruth to the chapel, where Sir Brian had attended early morning service. Her enquiry elicited the information that Mrs. Tate also attended service when she was able to get away, and Mr. Gordon sometimes did so, but not today since he was gone up to Town "for a indefinite time." This news lightened Ruth's spirits considerably, and the sun seemed brighter when she went outside again.
It was cooler today, and seagulls were wheeling overhead, uttering their piercing calls. She paused for an instant, looking up at them.
"Good morning, Miss Allington." The housekeeper approached, a crochetted shawl drawn close about her shoulders. "I trust you slept well."
The words were polite, but her eyes reflected no more interest than if she had addressed the stone bench set in a recess of the path beside them.
"Very well, I thank you," replied Ruth.
"Have you an interest in birds, ma'am?" There was just a hint of mockery in the question. Ruth was tempted to give the woman a set-down and had to remind herself that she was not the mistress here, but only a hired worker, and one regarded with disapproval. She said, "My late brother believed that seagulls go inland when a storm is coming. You've an interest in music, I believe. I heard you playing last evening, and you have a lovely speaking voice. Are you Welsh, perhaps? If so, I fancy you sing—no?"
Briefly, surprise flickered across the impassive features. "I am from Aber Tawy, madam, which you would call Swansea. My singing is unremarkable, but I am so fortunate as to sometimes play for Mr. Chandler's affianced when she is here. Lady Nadia has an exquisite soprano voice." Unsmiling still, she went on past.
It was such a pity, thought Ruth, that the people here must be so unfriendly, when the estate was so beautiful. Still, it was early days, and at least the individual who most resented her would not be a problem for a while. So his bride-to-be was called Lady Nadia, and was "an exquisite soprano." The ethereal type, no doubt, who sang in the church choir and was a model of gentle kindliness. Poor girl.
Just before she had left Lac Brillant on her first visit, Sir Brian had delegated to his son the task of conducting her to the chapel. Chandler had left what sounded to have been a contentious meeting with the steward, and had begged the patience of the half-dozen men waiting to see him. Obviously seething with impatience, he had rushed Ruth across to the chapel, jabbed a finger at the dingy fresco, and barely allowed her to take three steps towards it before remarking that the carriage waited to convey her to Dover.
This morning, the ancient little structure was chill but bright. The deep, richly carven rafters imparted a medieval elegance to the chapel and the rose window high in the east wall gleamed like a multi-coloured jewel in the early sunlight. Sir Brian was seated in a rear pew, deep in converse with Mr. Aymer. They ceased their discussion at once, and rose, to greet Ruth. The clergyman's manner had thawed considerably, and she was glad to see that Sir Brian's distinguished face wore a good-humoured expression. 'Is a gentleman of moods,' she decided.
The chaplain left them alone, and Sir Brian led Ruth to the fresco, which was situated between two more stained-glass windows on the south wall. It was not a work of great size, being roughly six feet wide and four feet high with the lower edge approximately six feet above the floor. A sturdy platform had been erected before it for her use, and Sir Brian assisted her up the steps to this edifice.
After only a brief inspection she realized that the work must be much older than she had at first thought. The surface was dark and cracked. It appeared to be a landscape, but it was difficult to make out details, and there was no apparent signature nor any indication as to who the artist might have been.
Watching her, Sir Brian said, "I brought an alleged expert down from London. He said it was the work of a nobody, and not worth the expense of restoring. Do you agree?"
"The gentleman must possess much keener eyesight than I do," she replied carefully. "He might very well be correct, but at this stage 'tis practically impossible to tell either who painted it, or what its intrinsic value might be. Is very old, certainly, and were this my home, I would value it excessively as part of my family history."
Obviously pleased, he said, "My own thought, exactly. My son disagrees with me. My heir, I should say. Although my younger son was much excited when I wrote to him of the discovery, and urges me to proceed with the restoration. You think it can be saved?"
"I think it well worth the attempt. It would be much more badly damaged had it not been covered by panelling for—how long a time, sir?"
He pursed his lips dubiously. "So far as I can determine, about two hundred years. One of my ancestors evidently took a dislike to it. Or perhaps, as Gordon says, sought to shut out the draughts by having the panelling installed. You think the wood protected it?"
"Not from damp, sir. But 'gainst the smoke from candles and braziers. Have you any idea of when it was painted, or what is the subject of the work?"
"This chapel is all that remains of the original pile, and was erected in the early thirteenth century. Perhaps the fresco dates back to that time. It may very well be a Biblical study. There is a hill there, do you see? And in the foreground, some figures. Many early family records were lost when Puritans stormed and burned much of the original house during the civil war, else we might have more knowledge of the work." He leaned closer, and peered up at the fresco. "I am forced to agree with Gordon that it shows little of either colour or promise."
"Take heart, sir," said Ruth with a smile. "In a few weeks you might be pleasantly surprised."
"Jupiter! Do you say you'll complete the work in so short a time?"
"That will depend on how you wish to proceed, Sir Brian. Also, if your fresco should begin to appear to be of great importance, you might be advised to call in experts from Italy. There is an exceptionally gifted gilder in Florence who would—"
He laughed. "Who would cost me a fortune, I've no doubt! No, no, my dear lady. This painting is of personal value to my family, but I doubt would warrant a major outlay of funds. Certainly, Gordon, who has a good business head on his shoulders, would put up a great to-do if I proposed such a course." He drew back, gripping his hands together, his eyes glinting. "Bless my soul! I begin to be excited. But what did you mean when you said your progress would depend on how I wanted to proceed? You are here, and ready to begin—no?"
"Assuredly, sir. If you wish the fresco to remain here."
His jaw dropped slightly. "Do you say it could be moved into the main house? How, Miss Allington? By witchcraft?"
With a smile she admitted she lacked such powers, and seizing this opportunity to impress him, went on, "Still, there are several possibilities. The a massello method, for instance, is simply to cut out the entire section of wall and move it to the desired location. There is also a process called stripping, which is rather more chancy. Alternatively, just a thin layer of the wall could be removed, rather than cutting out the entire piece, but again, 'tis chancy, with more risk of disintegration."
"Stap me, but you are prodigious knowledgeable," he exclaimed. "Were I to choose one of the methods you spoke of, could you do the work?"
Her heart sank, and she wished belatedly she had not been so generous with her information. "If you decided to remove the entire section of the wall, I could guide and oversee the stonemasons you would have to employ, and afterwards I could proceed with the restoration. The other techniques I spoke of are too difficult for most restorers, and the masters who developed them guarded their secrets. You would really have to import an expert, sir."
"I admire your honesty," he said with a smile. "I shall tell my son he was quite mist— Er, that is to say, I am more certain than ever that my confidence in you is well ju
stified." He patted her hand. "Now never look so apprehensive. 'Twould be impressive in the house, I grant you, but my fresco shall stay here, where it was intended. And you must commence your work as soon as your tools have been brought to you. Meanwhile, I beg you will come and take a dish of tea with me. You can tell me how you like the cottage."
As she was handed down the steps, Ruth's triumph was shadowed by resentment. Sir Brian's hurriedly cut-off remark made it clear that Mr. Chandler had spoken unkindly of her. What did the nasty creature suspect? That she had inveigled her way into Lac Brillant with some nefarious scheme in mind? Well, it no longer mattered what evil thoughts lurked in the mind of Mr. Gordon Chandler. Sir Brian had forgiven her for the ravaging of his beloved lawn and had given her permission to start work. By the time Mr. Chandler returned, the restoration would be well under way, and even so suspicious a man might have to admit that Mrs.—whoops! That Miss Allington knew what she was about!
Chapter 5
"I can but hope your sire will not hold me to have set a bad example, Jamie." Gideon Rossiter carried a glass of cognac to the chair occupied by Lieutenant Morris and handed it to his friend. A tall young man, and still too thin, although he was almost recovered from the wounds that had kept him in hospital for a year after the Battle of Lauffeld, Rossiter had been given no choice in the matter of selling out of the army. That Morris now meant to do so, came as a surprise. Returning to his own chair in the sunny withdrawing room of the narrow little London house he shared with his bride, he added, "Or is it that the doctors have certified you unfit?"
The words were teasingly uttered, but Rossiter's grey eyes were keen, aware of which Morris laughed and said, "Never judge me by yourself, my tulip. The great ones at the Horse Guards fairly begged me not to sell out. Truth is…" He hesitated. "I'll own you've set me an example in one way. I'd give a deal to be snug in a cozy little place like this, with—with Katrina Falcon."
Rossiter swirled the brandy in his glass and was silent. He'd begun to hope that Naomi was mistaken and that Morris was over his tendre for August Falcon's bewitchingly lovely sister. His bride, it seemed, was right as usual.
Morris shot a sideways glance at him. "I collect you think it a forlorn hope. Well, it ain't. Miss Katrina has become quite fond of me." Rossiter met his eyes gravely and, flushing, he added, "I dare to hope."
"Then I wish you all the luck in the world, old fellow."
"And think I'll need it." Morris sighed. "If only I hadn't put that ball through her miserable brother."
"August rode straight at us with a pistol in his hand. How were we to know he wasn't one of the highwaymen who'd stopped Naomi's coach?"
"Absolutely! Any reasonable man would accept that. Trouble is, Falcon's about as reasonable as Mount Vesuvius. I'll not fight him, Ross. However many times he arranges the damned meeting."
Rossiter said thoughtfully. "You could delope, you know."
"You're mad!" declared Morris, shocked and indignant. "Fire in the air while facing that maniac? What it is, you're eager to attend my last rites!"
"No, really Jamie, it might be better to get it over with. Falcon don't mean to put a period to you, and with the duel behind you, 'twould clear the air and he might look upon you with less—"
"Loathing? Not likely. And despite your generous advice, I ain't eager to let him put a hole in me! If I chose swords, I'd blasted well have to—"
A discreet knock at the door, and Rossiter's new man minced in to offer a silver salver. Rossiter glanced at the card on it. "Show him up, if you please," he said, and after the door closed muttered, "I now have a pompous idiot for my valet!"
"Who has come? Must I take myself off?"
"Gordon Chandler. As if he needed to send in his card. Jupiter, but sometimes I feel like telling Falcon I want Tummet back!"
Morris said with a grin, "I never thought to see the day you'd welcome that uncouth lout."
"That uncouth lout saved Naomi's life, and mine belike."
"Very true." Sobering, Morris nodded. "Then have him back."
'The silly clunch has some notion that now I'm a benedick his rough ways won't do for me. At least, that's what he says. But my sister has the notion that Tummet thinks Falcon needs him."
Morris all but gawked his astonishment. "My apologies to Miss Gwendolyn, but that maniac don't need anyone in this entire world save for Katrina and his father. And he guards the pair of 'em like some savage ogre who—"
"Aha! Caught you talking about me, I see!"
Both men stood to welcome Gordon Chandler. When the greetings were done and he was installed in a comfortable chair with an appropriately filled glass in his hand, he glanced around approvingly. "Nice lodgings, Ross. I didn't know you and Naomi had settled in Bond Street. Thought for sure you'd have moved in with the earl. Especially since that great house of his sits empty while Collington jaunters about—Spain, is it?"
Rossiter and Morris exchanged a swift glance.
Morris said, "This ain't Ross's place, Gordie. Belongs to Owen Furlong. He's letting them stay here."
"Till Emerald Farm is ready for us," said Rossiter. "But how is it that you're back in Town? I thought you intended to rusticate in Kent for a while?"
"I did." Chandler frowned. "I am obliged to hire a new steward. I was at last able to persuade my father to send Durwood packing."
"You've my sympathy," said Rossiter. "Couldn't the registry office send applicants down to you?"
"They could, of course. But—" Chandler's lips tightened. "Oh, I had to be in Town at all events, and I wanted to have a word with you."
Rossiter asked shrewdly, "Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"Several things. But the one that brings me here is a peculiar affair, and I hoped you might be able to enlighten me."
"We are experts in peculiar affairs," said Morris. "Never hesitate, dear boy! Who is she?"
Chandler laughed. "Nothing of that nature, 'pon my word. Have either of you the acquaintance of Trevor Shipley?"
"Heard of the family," said Morris. "Forget what."
"I met him here and there, before I bought my commission," said Rossiter. "Nice fellow. Why?"
Chandler set his glass down. "Trevor and I are friends of long standing, but from one cause or another we've not met this year and more. Last week I chanced to be near their country seat, so I decided to pay a call. It's a fine old place. Larchwoods."
"That strikes a chord," said Morris thoughtfully. "I seem to recall my father mentioning something… Some trouble—no?"
"Would that I knew. I got no farther than the lane. A group of insolent louts crowded me into the ditch, upset my mare, and rode past, howling." Chandler's chin jutted. Frowning at the memory, he went on, "When I reached the lodge, the gates were closed and the same louts were ranged across the drivepath, leering at me like so many filthy Mohocks."
Rossiter asked, "Is that what they were?"
"If so, they're in residence! I was denied admission, told the Shipleys no longer own the estate, and as good as run off!"
"Be damned!" said Morris.
Chandler jerked out of his chair and stamped over to the windows. "You know I am not usually quick to take umbrage."
"Placid as a parson," agreed Rossiter, a smile coming into his eyes. "Until you are provoked. Went back, did you?"
"Yes. I was afraid old Trevor might—" Chandler paused and said awkwardly, "Well, we were school chums, you know. At all events, I rode clear to the north end of the estate and climbed a tree so as to come over the fence. There never used to be one, but there is now. Damned great thing above six feet high, with broken glass on the top."
"Is that what happened to your hand?" asked Morris.
Chandler scowled down at the greenish bruise and said shortly, "No. But—"
He was interrupted by a sudden cacophany of deep-throated barking mingled with shrill shouts, a man's deep laughter, and a slamming door.
"That'll be Falcon," said Rossiter, with a wry look at Morris.
&nb
sp; Arming himself with a heavy vase, Morris said, "He's brought that blasted hound!"
"Well, well, well," drawled August Falcon, opening the door and checking on the threshold to survey them languidly. "A distinguished gathering, indeed. Is this why your blockish servant wanted me to send up a card? I'll go away if I'm de trop"
Rossiter went over to shake his hand. "Have you murdered the poor fellow?"
"Probably has," said Morris, still clutching the vase.
"No need. Apollo barked at him and he decamped. At speed. If you've decided to fight me at long last, Morris, I care not for your choice of weapons."
Morris put down the vase. "And I care not for your confounded brute."
Falcon acknowledged Chandler's polite greeting with a careless nod and wandered to a chair. "Tremble not, Sir Galahad. Apollo is taking Miss Rossiter for a walk."
"My sister came with you?" asked Rossiter, handing Falcon a glass of cognac.
"We met on your steps and having done his duty by your man, Apollo commandeered her. Which she quite deserves, since she chose to ruin his character by teaching him how to play. Marriage agrees with you, Ross. Almost, you begin to resemble a living being."
Rossiter grinned and bowed low.
Resorting to his quizzing glass, Falcon aimed it at Chandler. "Who convinced you to powder your curly locks? Do I detect the fine hand of a lady? Truly, you must be enchanted, but capitulation before wedlock is fatal, I warn you."
His face a little red, Chandler returned to his chair. "Much you know of it. For all your affaires de coeur I've yet to hear of your becoming so much as mildly interested in a lady."
"An I am only mildly interested, mon ami, I do not enter into an affaire. And 'tis because of my—er, excursions into the realm of l'amour that I avoid marriage like the plague." Falcon sipped his cognac and added airily, "Which it is, and I would expound on the subject save that you're likely too besotted to heed the voice of wisdom."
Ask Me No Questions Page 9