by Joan Smith
“Two virtues that are alien to you!” I answered swiftly.
“You are mad at me,” he replied in a wheedling tone. “You shouldn’t be, Constance. You, of all people, know what a trimming Rachel has given me all these years. I didn’t mind letting her have Thornbury, or even supplying money to keep it habitable for her, but for her to be lying to me—stealing is not too strong a word for it!—is the outside of enough.”
As there was no defense I could mount to this charge, I sat silently while selecting a fresh offensive. “You would have preferred to fritter away the money on gambling instead, no doubt.”
“At least I have a fighting chance at cards or horseracing. Only women take advantage of men,” he informed me.
“The whole world takes advantage of women! Why were all the estates left to you! Rachel was as close a relative to John Howell as you were, but Thornbury was given to you, who already had Westleigh and I don’t know what all else. It is my understanding that the head of the family is to take care of the less fortunate.”
“I do take care of the less fortunate. But Rachel is not among them. Sir John left her pretty well-off, you know. How else do you think she’s planning to buy Thornbury?”
“Do you think that’s what she’s up to?” I asked, interested to hear that he shared my view.
“I don’t see why else its value was suddenly cut in half.” After this speech, Aiglon sat down beside me on the pile of rocks. “I wonder why she doesn’t want to leave. She used to be a very sociable kind of woman. Actually, I had almost decided to offer her the use of a flat in London. I recently bought a large house in Upper Grosvenor Square and had it made into four rather nice flats. I have assorted genuinely less-fortunate relatives to occupy them. The one I have in mind for Rachel is also large enough to house you, Constance.”
I ignored this show of generosity and honed in on another point. “ ‘Recently’? How did you come to purchase a large house when you were dipped?” I asked.
“The purchase is recent; my unfortunate state of poverty is more recent. A temporary thing only, till next quarter day,” he added vaguely. “And the temporary shortage is not due to gambling. It happens I invested rather heavily in lumber from Canada. I lost two ships. I may be unlucky; I hope you don’t take me for a scoundrel.”
I hadn’t really expected an explanation and certainly not one couched in such humble phrases. Having been somewhat encroaching in my own queries, I was embarrassed. “You don’t have to explain your affairs to me,” I said. My voice was curt, which was not how I meant it to sound at all.
He turned a sharp, accusing eye on me. “Do I not? I had the distinct impression you were more than a little interested.”
“Just curious. We haven’t much to do here and perhaps I take an overweaning interest in other people’s affairs.”
He accepted this extremely oblique apology in good spirits. “Not much to do? You are unimaginative! What is there to do elsewhere that can’t be done here? You’ve roads for riding and driving, interesting towns and places to visit, other estates for balls and parties, the opposite sex to flirt with, and, on top of it all, the ocean at your doorstep. No, Constance, you’re manufacturing some sorry bricks here without straw. The fact is you’re a complete sloth who likes to do nothing better than sit on a rock and look at a garden. And a garden, incidentally, that could occupy a good deal of a woman’s time had she any taste for activity.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” I admitted. “But it is pleasant here in the garden, is it not?”
“The jungle is pretty, but I would have thought a confirmed sitter like yourself would have at least installed more comfortable chairs. Show me around the place,” he said, arising and offering me his hand.
As the jungle was impenetrable except for the walk, I showed him the ruined chapel instead. “This used to be called Our Lady’s Chapel before it was destroyed by Cromwell’s men,” I explained. “If you look carefully at the remaining bits of wall, you can see where the rocks were scorched by fire.”
“It would be fun to rebuild it,” he said. “I wonder how large it was.”
He clambered through the bottom portion of a window hole and stood on the rocks below, holding his hand up to me. “Come on, let’s explore. We’ll see if anything interesting remains.”
“There’s nothing but rubble. I’ve explored it a dozen times,” I objected, but the hand only beckoned peremptorily till I put mine in it and I was aided through the opening. Our footing was uncertain, and Aiglon kept hold of my hand to keep our balance. Or at least I expect that was his excuse. He was the sort of gentleman who liked women, I thought.
Most of the rocks were piled at one side of the excavation. At the other side grass grew up between the stones. “I wonder why the rocks were all removed to the east side,” he said, looking around.
“Some ancestor probably planned to use them for something but lost his enthusiasm midway in the project,” I suggested.
“They would make an excellent dovecote” was all he said, but his laughing eyes spoke volumes. “It was a fairly large chapel, wasn’t it?” he asked, walking over to the grassy area. Our footing wasn’t the least precarious here, yet still he held my hand. “In Norman times, of course, Thornbury was quite a grand residence—the original home of the Aiglon family,” he explained.
“I didn’t know that!”
“Oh, yes. That’s why it was left to me, the present head of the house. Old John Howell had nothing against Rachel. The place traditionally has gone to Lord Aiglon.”
“Then why are you selling it?” I asked.
I received a frustrated glare. He hadn’t meant to tell me the house had any particular significance. “It’s a case of necessity. I’m very reluctant to part with it,” he said stiffly. “Actually, it’s the only property I own that isn’t entailed.”
“But to sell the spot where your family first became prominent ... It seems almost a sacrilege, Aiglon!”
“A sacrilege on top of a desecration,” he said, looking all around at the ruins. “It must have been beautiful once. It’s built like a proper church—see, this was the nave, and this the transept,” he explained, pointing out where crossing demarcation lines could still be seen. He walked off to the left. “And this must have been a sort of sacristy. You can see that the walls formed a semicircle extending beyond the main body of the building. I wonder what it would cost to have it rebuilt.”
“That would be a poor investment.”
“What price do you put on history?” he asked.
“I was thinking of the imminent sale. You wouldn’t get your money back, and, besides, there wouldn’t be time to do it.”
Aiglon rubbed the back of his neck. I felt he was wavering in his notion of selling Thornbury. There was a section of wall that had completely blown away, and he let go my hand and walked out beyond the chapel, where he stood gazing back at it. There was a bemused air about him. I took a last look around the ruined sacristy. I noticed strange little indentations in the soft, grassy earth. Straight bars about two inches long and four inches apart. What could they be? They weren’t marks left by any animal or natural force. The marks were too regular, too sharp and clear. I walked forward and examined them. They seemed to go right under a small pile of rocks. I removed a few rocks and saw that the earth there had been recently disturbed.
“Look at this, Aiglon!” I called, and he returned.
“Someone’s been trespassing,” he commented idly. After all, there wasn’t much harm that could be done to a pile of rocks. “Probably poachers. I’ve seen quite a few rabbits around.”
“But what could have made those marks?”
“Possibly the butt of a rifle. I expect they hid their catch under the rocks when they heard someone coming. Are there any old books in the library with sketches of the chapel?” he asked.
“Yes, a few. If you’re interested in such things, Aiglon, Rachel bought an old history of the area just the other day. She bought it for you, but
it was moldy when she got it home, so she didn’t give it to you.” I was happy to encourage his interest in the place as it seemed to discourage him selling it. I knew Rachel would be delighted.
“We should mark this day on the calendar. It will be the first time Rachel Savage has ever willingly given anybody anything!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, she’s not that bad,” I lied.
“If she’s been kind to you, then I forgive her all the rest. Come, let’s go for a drive. It’s such a beautiful day.”
He took my hand again, and we left the chapel to stroll back through the overgrown path to Thornbury. His groom brought the yellow curricle around, and I was assisted up into it. It’s great height and precarious seating seemed less odd and dangerous on this second trip. It was an excellent vehicle for both speed and sightseeing. We drove southwest along the coast road past Folkestone and Hythe. I suggested that we stop at Saltwood Castle, but Aiglon was more eager to continue our drive. With the unappetizing marsh spreading out before us there wasn’t much to see, so we turned around and started home.
The traffic was not heavy during the late afternoon, and Aiglon took it into his head that I should have a lesson in what he called “handling the ribbons,” which meant driving his team. The team darted along, paying no heed to my restraining orders, but at least they had the wits to remain on the ironed road, so I didn’t complain. I sat in silent anguish, frightened to death, while Aiglon merrily told me this was the very thing I needed, a new pastime to alternate with sitting on the pile of rocks and looking at the derelict garden. The excitement put some color into my cheeks, he said. It also blew my hair all over my face and left me breathless, but he was kind enough not to mention those details.
We shot home at a reckless pace till we were just past Folkestone. That is where we met the tranter’s wagon, which was removing a house of furniture on a flatbed, drawn by four husky nags. They were an ill-natured team. I’m quite sure Aiglon’s grays could have gotten past them without incident if the leader—the tranter’s leader, I mean—hadn’t decided at that precise moment to stand up on its hind legs and neigh.
The grays had city manners and weren’t accustomed to such incivility. They bolted faster, breaking their gait and causing the curricle to jerk dangerously. The reins pulled painfully at my fingers till I was quite sure I had broken one or two of them. I let out a howl of pain sharper than the tranter’s neighing nags and dropped the ribbons. This gave the grays the notion that they were to step up their pace even faster. It was very fortunate that Aiglon had the wits to lunge for the dropped reins before they became entangled in the grays’ legs or we might have ended up in the nearest field. As it was, we got no farther than the ditch. Nothing was irreparably damaged, not even my pride.
“Why did you pull them off to the right?” I attacked before he could beat me to an accusation.
“It’s a little hard to pull straight when you’re not in the driver’s seat!” he pointed out. “Why did you drop the ribbons? The first lesson you have to learn, Constance, is never to drop the ribbons when your nags are in full gallop.”
“No, the first lesson is never to take hold of the ribbons when you don’t know how to drive!”
“How are you ever going to become a first-class fiddler if you don’t take the ribbons?” he countered.
“I’m not likely to become a first-class fiddler in the space of the day or two you’ll be at Thornbury,” I reminded him.
“Day or two? I plan to remain till Thornbury is sold. I’ll be here for a month at least, possibly through the summer,” he said. “Now, take the reins again and get us out of this ditch,” he ordered calmly.
“I wouldn’t touch them if my life depended on it,” I answered, and folded my arms over my chest.
“Driving is like riding. You have to get back in the driver’s seat immediately after a little mishap or you’ll never regain your nerve. Here, take ‘em.” He tossed the reins at me and they landed in my lap, where I left them.
Meanwhile, the team was becoming a little restive. They were finding their own way out of the ditch without much trouble. I thought Aiglon would be gentleman enough to take up the reins, but he did nothing of the sort. He just let the nags climb up by themselves and meander down the road. The mishap and their ascent from the ditch appeared to have tired them somewhat, for their pace slackened to about ten miles an hour. This was still faster than I usually drive the gig, but seemed safe compared to the speed of our former dash. When one of the team began eyeing the grass by the roadside, I took up the reins and pulled it into line. We got home without further mishap, but I was as angry as a hornet and determined that I wouldn’t subject myself to another ride in Aiglon’s fearsome curricle.
“We’ll drive east toward Dover tomorrow,” he informed me when we reached the stable.
“I’ve had enough driving for the present,” I declared, and hopped down from the perch.
“Would you prefer to ride?” he asked, not displeased with this notion. I saw him looking at his mounts, a pair of vicious-looking brutes pawing the earth in their boxes.
“No, Aiglon, I would prefer to walk. Or, better yet, to stay safely at home!”
He flung the reins to his groom, then took my arm to walk to the house. “That’s the wrong attitude. You should always take full advantage of any interesting possibility that comes you way, Constance,” he said earnestly. “Now confess the truth: Wasn’t the riding lesson more fun than sitting on your rocks?”
“It may seem so someday in retrospect. At the moment, I am tired and hot. My fingers are broken, and my hair is falling into my eyes,” I told him.
He stopped and brushed my hair back. “But it’s done wonders for your complexion, Constance, my flower. We’ll have a glass of wine and a rest, which will take care of the fatigue and the heat.”
There was a playful, flirtatious air about him as he made these comments. His head inclined toward mine, his eyes dancing. I was not totally immune to his persuasions, but I was not about to be lured back into the death curricle, either.
“That just leaves my broken fingers,” I replied, and tried to resume walking. Aiglon held me immobile with one hand.
“We’ll have to get you a thicker pair of gloves. You can wear mine till then. Our hands aren’t that different in size,” he pointed out, and used this as an excuse to fondle my fingers, stretching them out along his. “Tell me truthfully now, are they really hurt?” he asked.
“Yes, but not broken apparently. Despite the way you’re twisting them, I don’t hear them cracking.”
Then he released my hand and we resumed our walk. “You haven’t been heeding my lessons, Constance. The curricle isn’t the only object that’s been thrown in your path, to be taken advantage of. It also comes with an excellent driver.”
He peeped a saucy smile at me. I didn’t answer him, for I couldn’t think of anything to say. He continued undismayed. “I might as well warn you that I plan to take full advantage of all the beauties of Thornbury, your sweet self included.”
We were at the back door. He opened it in silence. I went to my room to survey the travesty of the careful toilette I had begun the excursion in. I looked quite like a dame who had just run a smock race. And won. There was a bright sparkle in my eyes, and my color was certainly enhanced by the outing. There was also a sly smile lifting my lips. Aiglon had managed to ingratiate himself into my good graces.
Despite his drinking and the duel, despite his gambling and the possible sale of the estate—or perhaps because of them—Aiglon was the most interesting man ever to set foot inside of Thornbury, and I would be a fool not to enjoy his presence to the fullest. I hastily cleaned myself up and ran belowstairs to drink the wine prescribed by my new flirt.
* * *
Chapter 6
Aiglon hadn’t returned belowstairs by the time I reached the saloon, but Rachel was there. I asked whether she had enjoyed her outing.
“It was completely successful, Constance,” she rep
lied, eyes twinkling. “Two Runners inquired after Aiglon. I thought three might be overdoing it. What do you think?”
“I doubt they’d send more than one.”
“For a murder!” she asked, glaring at me in displeasure. “And what did Aiglon do while I was gone?”
“He took me for a ride in his curricle. We ended in a ditch,” I said.
“That sounds exactly like Aiglon. But it was wise of you to get him out of the house. He didn’t mention noticing anything amiss in my housekeeping?” she inquired warily.
“Nothing of importance,” I assured her. “Rachel, with careful handling, I think he might be talked out of selling Thornbury.”
“Where do you get that idea?” she asked, keenly interested.
“We were down at the ruined chapel before our drive, and he—”
“What! What the devil were you doing there?” she demanded, her face white with anger or chagrin. I was quite astonished at such a strong reaction.
“Nothing! We were just talking. Why do you look so-so startled?” I asked in confusion.
“That is exactly the isolated sort of place you must keep away from when you’re with him, Constance. I feel responsible for you; you were sent here in my charge. A man of Aiglon’s kidney—”
“No, really he’s not that bad,” I objected.
“You must rely on my judgment in this matter. I have known him longer and more intimately than you, my dear. And what gave you the notion he might be dissuaded from selling Thornbury?”
“He is somewhat interested in its historical associations. He mentioned rebuilding the chapel. And naturally he’s reluctant to sell the place where his family first rose to prominence. With a little judicious handling, I think he could be talked out of selling.” I expected to see joy and to hear congratulations for my news. What I saw was a sharp frown, and what I heard was silence.